


compendium

by shoutz



Series: snow, as she falls [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Baking, Birthday, Biting, Character Death, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Flowers, Fluff, Foreplay, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Loneliness, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Mutual Pining, Novelization, Oral Sex, Pining, Rough Sex, Sparring, Teasing, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), What-If, i guess?, tea and cookies, with a twinge of optimism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 21,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26399083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoutz/pseuds/shoutz
Summary: for xivwrites 2020!
Relationships: Ardbert & Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Azem/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light, Zenos yae Galvus/Warrior of Light
Series: snow, as she falls [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1572478
Comments: 94
Kudos: 80





	1. crux

**Author's Note:**

> i'm going to post these in batches because it's easier for my brain to do! thanks!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _the decisive or most important point at issue_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heavy 5.3 spoilers! a baby emet pov of the seat of sacrifice

_This is the turning point,_ Hades thought. _The crux._ The do-or-die moment that will decide not only her fate, but the fates of this and every other world.

It is not the first of these she has faced and, should she survive, it will not be the last. Conflicts and moments and decisions like these — crucial and life-altering — flock to her like moths to flame, cling to her like dew drops to blades of grass in their desperate need to be overcome by her strength of will. She finds them and they find her in equal parts. As it always has been, so shall it always be.

For she bore the title and burden of Azem. The traveler. How could he have been so _blind?_

Regardless of Hades’ own ineptitude, however, she found herself squarely upon the precipice of another horrid crux. And this time, on the losing end of the battle. Even with Elidibus’ chains broken, she still remains adrift amidst parts unknown, somewhere between worlds and without the means to return home.

A lost traveler. Hades cannot quite conceal his chuckle.

He watches her in the darkness, clutching that orange rock as if it were her last hope. It glows and its shine is so fundamentally hers that he can only remember how thoroughly he had allowed himself to be blinded. By Zodiark, by Elidibus, by his own nostalgia. And perhaps most painfully, the irony that _hers_ had been the hand to strike him down; the culmination of that nostalgia, that very past he so sought to restore, had been his undoing.

Her old, precious magic is brought to bear once more before his eyes. Bittersweet, knowing how it came to fruition, the nights he labored in secret to create the last vestige of his dearest friend.

_Oh._

The realization staggers him. The magic brought him here. _She_ brought him here.

Fate had always walked alongside her in lock-step. Hades would not let that end here.

“And so it ends,” Elidibus says to his empty battlefield. “In unceremonious silence.” He turns, then, thinking his battle won.

But a glowing, golden rune paints itself on the ground. Hades appears at its center and Elidi bus turns to regard him with fear and wonderment both beneath the recognition writ plain On his visage.

“You… It cannot be…”

Hades does not respond with words. With one snap of his fingers, she returns in a flash of blinding light. Home, once more, to save yet another world, to win yet another battle.

Guided by Hades’ own hand, as he had been summoned to do.

With that he turns, feeling the burning press of eyes upon his form. Her eyes, no doubt wondering just who had brought her back.

To ensure no lingering doubt remains in her mind, Hades raises his hand and waves her off, just as he had done so long ago. When she couldn’t remember.

 _Now,_ he thinks, _perhaps after all this, you will remember._


	2. sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _rule, control_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an itty bitty aymeric character study! it doesn't really imply much on its own but pretend it's aymeric/estinien/wol thanks

The citizens of Ishgard make many assumptions as to the power Aymeric holds, now that his father has fallen and the war has ended.  _ Speaker of the House of Lords _ is not the most defined title, for its new and frightening place in this Ishgard lacking its Archbishop. The most misplaced of these assumptions is that he somehow knows what he is doing, at any point in any of this.

He likes to  _ think _ that he does, somewhat. And if not, he likes to think that his good intentions at least guide him towards the right things to do. So far this has been the case, but…

Saying that his blind luck and well-meaning heart got him where he is now would greatly understate the efforts of those around him.

Estinien, even through his time under Nidhogg’s thrall, had labored to bring the Dreadwyrm to its end, and in doing so, brought a generations-long war to its end as well. Without his efforts, the true nature of man’s history with dragons would have remained secret, and Aymeric would have remained complacent in its propagation. And though it had been wrought by his hand, they would not have had the means to destroy Nidhogg at all if not by his strength of will.

The Scions, few though they had been, had pushed his hand towards action, towards  _ resolution. _ After so long stagnating beneath the Archbishop’s rule for naught but the assumption that they  _ must _ remain thus, to be so motivated to true action by the heart and earnest desire to do what is right. They had come to Ishgard as strangers, as a broken band of weary travelers barely held together by the armor they bore, and left it as heroes.

And of course, the Warrior of Light, whose stalwart determination to  _ help _ single handedly shook Aymeric’s foundation to its core. For the simple sake of doing what she knew was right, despite the difficulty, her hand had led the others’. She had not only seen fit to slay Nidhogg by her own hand, but with the care and grace to spare Estinien’s life in the process, despite Aymeric’s assumption that all would be lost.

Aymeric knew, in the deepest parts of his soul, that the sway attached to his title had come from them. Any and all power he gained, it was by the hands and hearts and strength of those alongside whom he fought.

And he would not let it go to waste.


	3. muster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _summon up (a particular feeling, attitude, or response)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a snapshot of the dying gasp cutscene! hooray!

The world goes white. The violet landscape, the Light she had spat upon the ground, her friends who had fallen and Emet-Selch all disappear.

Her gaze drifts to see a set of familiar greaves standing at her side. Her eyes adjust and beside her is Ardbert, so calm, so  _ prepared. _ He’s a rock and she latches onto it, using his presence to survive the storm as it rages around her in a confluence of Light.

His voice emerges from the brilliance, so familiar and so solemn. Arbdert knows something now that has changed him fundamentally, she can tell even despite being pushed to the brink of her very being.

“If you had the strength to take another step,” he asks, “could you do it? Could you save our worlds?”

She manages the faintest bit of a grin. “What, all by myself?”

It startles a chuckle from him, even despite the gravity of their situation. He holds his bloodied axe towards her and when he finally looks, he does not see her weakened. He sees her  _ ready. _

“Take it. We fight as one.”

She does.

In a burst of Light, she stands, and from her lips comes a voice —  _ their _ voice now, together.

“This world is not yours to end,” they say. She has never felt so alive, so ready to face her fate, so  _ sure. _ She embraces Ardbert’s presence in her soul, the strength he gives, the love and courage and willpower he had carried through his life. The same that had been her own, so long ago.

A piece of herself returns to the whole. Like a lock clicking into place.

“No… It can’t be…” Emet-Selch says as he sees her, but is quick to snap out of his stupor as the flare settles. “Bah, a trick of the light. You are a broken husk, nothing more.” The Warrior of Light steadies herself with the knowledge that this is the most whole she has been since the world was sundered.

She is not broken, and she is not alone. And with this held secure in her mind and heart, she musters the will to fight.


	4. clinch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _grapple at close quarters, so as to be too closely engaged for full-arm blows_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a fun fluffy tidbit from the first because they're allowed to be FRIENDS and have FUN even if the WORLD IS ENDING or whatever

She knows her strengths. This much has been obvious from the first, as she wielded a book as her weapon and used aether instead of brute strength to defeat her enemies. This quality is not lost without her tome, either, Thancred learns rather quickly.

They had never been particularly close, in the past. Though they are both Scions, duty commonly took them in vastly different directions, and large swaths of time passed between their meetings that tended towards brief. They had been lucky to have any time to chat together at all. Between Lahabrea, Thancred’s time in the lifestream, missions sending them in opposite directions, and his collapse early on… Their lifestyle does not allow for much fraternization.

And so when she had found him and asked to spar, Thancred didn’t quite know what to expect. Certainly not to land flat on his back in a thicket of flowers to a chorus of giggles, human and pixie alike.

“That’s three,” Gaia deadpans through a smirk from where she sits in the grass beside the makeshift fighting ring outside the Shelves. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Thancred glares in her direction from his place on the ground, pointedly ignoring the Warrior of Light as she towers over his prone form, hands on her hips as she catches her breath and grins. “Well?”

“My primary value to the Scions does not lay in my martial prowess. It is in covert operations and espionage,” he says, but the pixies laugh even harder, high-pitched and tittering. “It’s not much of a fair fight to pit me against the strongest warrior any world has to offer. It’s only a good-natured spar, anyway. I’m honored to help the Warrior of Light hone her skills hand-to-hand.”

“Even if you lose?” Ryne asks, words that would usually sting his pride, but they are easier to hear in that sweet voice that couldn’t cut if it tried.

“There are a plethora of people who could tell you that  _ winning _ against her in a test of strength is nigh impossible,” he retorts. “I’m perfectly content in my inability to best her, and equally content to play my part in honing that strength.”

“That’s an interesting way of admitting defeat,” Gaia says, prompting another giggle from Ryne and the onlooking pixies.

“It’s not much of a fair fight regardless,” the Warrior of Light interjects, wandering over to sit beside the girls and their pile of flowers to weave. She picks up a few and starts fiddling with the stems as she speaks“While he is larger than I am and has a longer reach, my comparably shorter arm span gives me a distinct advantage at close quarters. When I clinch him like that, he can’t use the full strength of his arm, but I still can. The same applies to you two, you hear? Distance is helpful sometimes, but when you can’t get far enough away, sometimes the answer is to get closer.”

“So kind of you to teach them how to beat me as well,” Thancred says, glaring in her direction as she grins and picks up more flowers to weave together.

“Can’t teach them what you yourself don’t know.”

“Ah, the sage wisdom of the Warrior of Light graces us once more,” Urianger says as he approaches with a plate of tea and treats for the girls. And Thancred.

“There had better be extra pastries on that tray,” Gaia calls out.

“It  _ was _ going to be best of three,” Ryne explains, “but her second victory was so quick that we got bored waiting and they went again. But she won again, so the wager still stands!”

“I relinquish my price to the girls,” the Warrior of Light says, tossing her small wreath of woven flowers onto Thancred’s face. “Thank you for indulging me, Thancred.”

Thancred smiles and sits upright, straightening his new crown onto his head. Urianger sets the tray down among the five of them and sits as well, and Ryne is quick to gift him with another crown of her own making before snatching a few treats for herself and Gaia.

Another day lost to whimsy. Thancred knows he cannot complain. Instead he takes a pastry for himself, and resigns himself to the sweet joy of defeat.


	5. matter of fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _something that belongs to the sphere of fact as distinct from opinion or conjecture_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some amaurot-era azemet!

A rare day sees Azem in Amaurot. Emet-Selch will  _ not _ waste this opportunity.

He knows a plethora of people will inevitably vie for her attention, as Convocation members and gentry alike are wont to flock to her for stories of lands afar and adventures only she could experience. She rarely if ever turns them away outright, and rarely if ever lacks stories to tell or new and exciting details of the world beyond.

But she has also always tried her hardest to make time for Emet-Selch. And for that, he was both grateful and honored.

Hours pass after news of her arrival reached the Architect’s offices but her presence is notably lacking. Emet-Selch, never having been the most patient man, eventually sees fit to take initiative and seek her out himself.

He does not hear her bright laughter in the Akadaemia, and the distinct lack of people outside the Capitol clearly denotes her absence. He investigates each of her usual haunts and catches not so much as a glimpse of her. He eventually surrenders and makes his way back to the Architect’s offices, hoping that perhaps she awaits him there, and it had apparently been the right decision.

She kneels next to some well-tended flowers in the square outside his building, flowers he did not create with aether but instead  _ cultivated _ by hand. Splashes of color blanket the grounds outside, bright colors and pastel hues and every imaginable shade between, gathered from distant lands to create a mosaic of the world outside. She had insisted upon it after her first long trip away, but before long Emet-Selch was requesting specific breeds and colors to add to his collection, cataloguing them by region so he can visit her when the fancy strikes, albeit in spirit.

Flowers themselves are not novel, nor are most things to Amaurotine society. If he truly desired, he could procure an entire garden,  _ ten _ entire gardens of every kind of flower imaginable in every color and hybrid imaginable to boot. It carried a different weight when he nurtured them to health himself, and yet another that she brought them from afar to him. He could just as easily wave them into existence to his liking, but the joy of the act itself, of growing something living by his own hand instead of simply thinking it into existence, was enough reason to humble himself. There is perfection in the imperfection of natural growth, of letting nature work itself upon the soil into beauty instead of simply creating it instantaneously.

Emet-Selch smiles, fond, before approaching.

“I sincerely hope you’ve brought a suitable addition to my collection for all the trouble I’ve had in finding you.”

Azem turns her head to see him and grins, standing upright to address him. “As a matter of fact, I have.” With a flourish, she draws something from her sleeve — a bright orange variant of a flower that had taken Emet-Selch ages to cultivate on his own. 

“It’s beautiful. I shall treasure it,” he responds, taking the proffered flower with gentle hands.

“I wanted to find a purple one for you, but I figured you would like the orange to add with the others.” She pulls another mystery object from her sleeve: this time, a small handful of seeds. “Luckily they were willing to part with seeds for both, that you can grow them together.”

Emet-Selch nods, unable to hide his grin. “Hopefully they will be in bloom when next you return.”

Azem shrugs, turning to a few deep blue roses she had brought him several years ago. “I don’t want to think about that just yet, Hades— I’ve only just returned!”

“Well, then you can tell me of your travels, and I will listen with an attentive ear until you tire of my company and flee to show Hythlodaeus another of your little trinkets.”

She grins and heads towards the Architect’s office, leaving Emet-Selch to follow in her wake. “But I  _ never  _ tire of your company, sweet Hades.”

“Perhaps I will become boring on purpose, then,” he responds, catching up. “So you’ll leave and I can see what you’ve brought him. You always bring back the most fascinating machinations.”

Her laugh is nigh musical as it fills the air around them. “I hesitate to believe you could be boring on purpose. But I look forward to seeing you try! Because I met some of the  _ kindest _ farmers, they’re the ones who gave me these seeds— their home was lined with so many colors I could hardly count!”

Emet-Selch smiles and listens, and enjoys her presence in his life once more.


	6. heaven's grief, hell's rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _but i'd trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday_
> 
> Emet-Selch kills the Warrior of Light at the Dying Gasp. None of the Scions, just the Warrior. The light leaving the Warrior’s body goes straight to him afterward. It isn’t violent enough to sunder him, but is enough to destroy his tempering by flooding his body with an entire world’s worth of excess light aether. Norvrandt is no longer in danger because the excess light has been absorbed. A rejoining is no longer imminent.
> 
> Untempered, still-immortal, surrounded-by-Scions Emet-Selch no longer has Zodiark’s will shaping his grasp of the situation and acceptable costs. He’s also just killed what remained of someone extremely close to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this day was a free day, and for these i decided to polish and post some old oneshot wips i've been meaning to tweak. this one was a prompt from a looooooong time ago that i've been picking at on and off since december, a nice little what-if for you to ponder

The Light fades in a slow wave. It takes ages for their eyes to adjust, for them to see the aftermath of a blow dealt without mercy. Aether fizzles in the air, the remnants expending their last bits of energy before disappearing completely.

Emet-Selch feels it like a shoulder popping back into its joint. Something that was wrong righted in an instant. A distinct moment, a before and after.

A mind tempered, and a mind freed.

He gasps a breath so suddenly and violently it could be a sob. The weight of emotions unbound and unhindered threatens to crush him — everything he had said, everything he had done, and the consequences of each in turn. Without Zodiark’s will deciding for him how to act and how to feel about his deeds, he finds himself drowning amidst guilt and fear and agony and grief like none other.

The Light flickers out of existence, completely spent. Gone is the aether which had held such sway over this shard, wielded for the sole purpose of destroying Emet-Selch. Of saving this world and her people.

But the Warrior of Light, of Darkness, will not see it saved.

Her body pitches forward. Time slows to a crawl. Before anyone can process the event transpiring before their eyes, the Warrior of Light is falling, falling.

She crumples to the ground, motionless.

Alisaie is the first to react and it’s a broken cry, one that pierces Emet-Selch like an arrow straight through his raw, untempered heart. She’s as frozen as he is, as they all are; the first to run forward after a few stunned moments is Ryne, who reaches her hands out to do something. To stitch the pieces of her back together, perhaps, if such a feat can be at all accomplished.

Some of the others follow her example. Alphinaud rushes and tries to help, hands glowing with aether once he’s close enough. Alisaie finally breaks from her stupor and collapses to her knees next to the corpse, clutching a cold hand in both of hers. All but the oldest of them — Urianger, Y’shtola, Thancred, the Crystal Exarch — are frantic to somehow breathe life back into their dearest friend.

Y’shtola’s blind eyes are shut. A furrow creases itself into Urianger’s brow, fists balled tight at his sides. Thancred is too shocked to move, too dumbstruck by the downfall of their best and last hope. Silent tears spill from the Exarch’s unhooded eyes, streaking through bits of soot and grime still clinging to his skin.

It does nothing. It’s all fruitless. Even under her friends’ careful ministrations, her life force remains dim. The color of her soul does not return.

“No,” Ryne cries, “it cannot— She…”

The Warrior of Light’s form begins to dissolve. They watch in horror as the physical remains of their friend fall away like snowflakes made of light, until they are left with nothing.

_Nothing._

Alisaie looks up from her empty hands and pins Emet-Selch with a glare even as tears track down her cheeks. He physically flinches backwards, startled by the intensity of the rage he sees beneath.

 _“You—”_ She starts towards him, weapon drawn. Her approach doesn’t stop until she’s within striking distance, the tip of her rapier pointed directly at his heart.

“Alisaie, please—” Alphinaud starts, but she barrels forth.

“You _monster—_ Do you know what you’ve done?!”

Emet-Selch feels the tip of her blade press harder against his chest, a promise and a threat in one cruel gesture. He’s not entirely sure it’s misplaced. Where before he had stopped it with a shield and a solemn gaze, now its metal tip _touches_ him, insofar as it can.

Part of him wishes it would not only touch, but _pierce._

“I…” he begins, but what could he say? What could he do to make up for their profound loss? And…

And _his_ loss.

“He didn’t do this.” Ryne’s quiet voice cuts through the tension. Ryne, whom he had just speared straight through with his aether not half an hour before. Everyone turns to her in an instant but she’s watching Emet-Selch with careful sadness, with quiet remorse.

A long silence stretches between them as they consider her words.

Y’shtola is the first to break it. “She has the right of it. He may have done many awful things, he may have killed countless people in his pursuit of a Rejoining, but _this_ death was… technically not on his hands.”

“If he hadn’t committed those previous atrocities, there would be no need for this one,” Thancred spits with no small amount of venom.

Alphinaud looks to Urianger, whose jaw is clenched and tense as his eyes fixate on where the Warrior of Light had been. Their most verbose friend, for once without words. “Is there truly nothing we can do?”

“No.” Emet-Selch doesn’t let any of them answer. “There is nothing to be done. There is no act of mercy nor miracle to be performed that could bring her back.” The words sound hollow as they come out of his mouth, numb. As if they are someone else’s words, though they’re the first words he has truly spoken free of Zodiark’s influence since His summoning.

Even here, even now, he will not lie to them.

No matter how horribly he wishes he could.

“Oh, I see— When _you_ lose loved ones, you’re allowed to raze entire worlds to the ground and destroy the lives of millions, without a second thought. Yet when we lose our world’s last hope, she’s just _gone?!”_ The tip of Alisaie’s rapier presses deeper, a stinging pain through his robes. But it’s not enough. “Are you satisfied? Have we lost enough to be considered anything more than the aftereffects of events which transpired so inexplicably long before our time? Are we _truly alive_ yet?!”

Emet-Selch — Ascian, Architect of the Convocation, founder of empires — _flinches._

“Alisaie—” Alphinaud tries, but his twin’s grief surges.

Alisaie whirls on her feet, removing her sword from his chest as she cries out, “Alphinaud, she’s _gone!_ She’s not coming back! And whether it was his fault or no, it makes no matter — the one hope we had to see our grandfather’s dreams come to fruition is _dead.”_

Tears shimmer as they streak across the boy’s cheeks but he has no further words, no balm of optimism to soothe this most vile ache as is his wont. Hearing the word aloud — _dead, dead, dead,_ as it echoes — breaks something within each of them. An illusion shattered in mere seconds as they come to terms with what they have lost.

As Emet-Selch comes to terms with what _he_ has lost.

“You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet,” Thancred comments, spiteful. “Not going to gloat your victory? You’ve won. Congratulations.”

“Victory yet eludes him,” Urianger says before Emet-Selch can answer. “She is gone, but so too is her Light spent. Whilst the lasting effects of such an expulsion remain yet unclear, it cannot be utilized in his long-sought after Rejoining.”

 _The Rejoining._ His skin used to itch with restlessness at the mention, but in lieu of that he now finds himself empty. Cold. So starkly lacking something that it feels akin to a hole in his chest.

“Wait. Ryne,” Y’shtola says, taking a step towards Emet-Selch and squinting her unseeing eyes in his direction. “Do you see it?”

Blue eyes comb his form, searching for something invisible to the naked eye. Everyone joins them in their examination, though lacking the requisite aetheric sensitivity to see what they do, and Emet-Selch is made to feel more like livestock at an auction than a man who just killed this and every other world’s last hope.

“It’s…different,” Ryne muses, stepping forward for a closer look. Alisaie moves to the side and studies him, rapier and threat nigh forgotten.

“It seems our friend was the Light to counteract your Ascian Dark. Before there had been such an overbearing depth to his Darkness, but now…”

Urianger steps forward, inquisitive. Emet-Selch would find their curiosity almost adorable if not for the gravity of what he has done. “Dost thou find thyself yet enthralled by Zodiark’s will?”

Emet-Selch opens his mouth to answer, but Alisaie’s voice is cutting as she interrupts. “What does it matter? What’s done is done. All that’s left to us is to clean up the mess he made.”

And… She is not wrong. In fact her error lay primarily in her understatement; _mess_ is far too kind a term for what he has wrought.

For what he has stolen from this world and all other worlds. For who he has killed, and how. For the fact that in his endless, unflinching pursuit of nostalgia, he destroyed the very past he sought to restore.

Azem had made allies in life. _Friends._ Bonds with people that would hold from one life into the next. Even sundered, these seven had flocked to her, or she to them. It made little difference because she collected them in droves. Little stars connected into constellations, bits and pieces to make an incomprehensible whole. Light, for when even the shining moon wanes dark.

And he _ruined_ it.

But…

The story is not over, and he still has a role to play.

Emet-Selch straightens and looks over the Scions one by one, taking in their haggard forms and the myriad feelings they turn in his direction. Grief, of course, at the forefront, mingled with loathing and confusion and bone-deep exhaustion. They bear no fondness for him, nor he for them. But they are unbroken. They bear a grim determination, a drive towards a purpose seldom seen in others. One inspired by _her,_ one that persists even after her passing — perhaps even strengthened by it, or at the very least hardened.

He can work with that.

One final glance to where she had fallen confirms that the Warrior of Light — that _Azem,_ or at least a fraction of her — is gone. Left in her wake is a world half-broken but free of Light at last, her friends wounded yet stalwart…

And Emet-Selch, untempered and heavy with the weight of his actions and their consequences. Emet-Selch, as he begins the arduous process of grieving what he lost to his own misguided folly. Emet-Selch, as he picks up the pieces left in the wake of this tragedy.

 _Hades,_ as he sets out to repair what he has shattered.

“You’ll not be cleaning alone,” he says with a strength not wholly his own. “I know you do not trust me, and almost certainly want me dead instead of her. I understand that. But I possess a…a clarity, one which I did not have before. And I know I cannot run from this.”

“Why?” He expects the Exarch’s tone to be malicious, for the question to be spat in his direction, but he merely sounds _tired._

Emet-Selch smiles, lop-sided, understanding now what he should have long ago: that perhaps these creatures are worthy of the star they call home after all.

“Because it is what she would want.”


	7. nonagenarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _a person who is from 90 to 99 years of age_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S LIKE ALL MY NAMEDAYS COME AT ONCE! - ardbert, probably

“Ardbert? Are you there?”

Well,  _ that’s _ new.

Historically, he has been the one to visit her, to seek her out in the safety of her room in the Pendants. Each time had been more for business than pleasure, though the mere act of speaking to her is pleasure enough to make up the difference. Occasionally they speak of lighter topics, of their lives and their ambitions and the softer aspects of the past, and those conversations Ardbert holds closest to his heart.

Though he’s not quite sure what to expect when he appears to her. Certainly not…

“Is that…cake?”

The Warrior of Light beams at Ardbert, setting her creation on the table. A bit of flour streaks across one of her cheeks, apron stained with the same yellow as the icing covering the cake. It’s plain but she’s obviously proud, hands on her hips as she looks to Ardbert for his reaction.

“It is! For you,” she says, and Ardbert can’t hide his confused expression.

“For me?”

She nods, still smiling. “I know you can’t quite… _ enjoy _ it, as you are now, but I’ve been learning how to bake recently.”

“That doesn’t explain why it’s for  _ me,” _ he reiterates, crossing his arms over his chest, though he can’t quite help but share her excited grin.

“Well… You said you’ve been here like this for nearly 100 years.”

A sort of tension tightens his shoulders, and he looks away. “More or less.”

_ “And, _ you’ve had many a nameday between now and then.” Ardbert looks to her and— that  _ damned _ smile, beaming and bright, warms him from the inside and eases the tension in an instant. She gestures to her cake, “So I figured we should make up for lost time.”

Ardbert stares at her, speechless for several moments. She takes this the entirely wrong way and starts fidgeting in place, trying to wipe the flour from her cheek but only serving to smear it more. “I didn’t know when your  _ actual _ birthday was, and I know it’s not very thoughtful of me to make you something you can’t even  _ eat—” _

“Thank you,” he says with all the earnestness in his heart. She looks back at him and it’s his turn to smile, to ease her tension with his own joy. “Being remembered like this, even after I’ve technically died… Even if I can’t enjoy your baking myself, the thought alone means the world to me.”

She nods, once, a pink tinge coloring her cheeks. “I’m glad.”

“Well?” he asks, gesturing at the cake. “Go on. I want to know how it tastes.”

The Warrior of Light stows her apron and sits at the table next to him, carefully cutting a slice of her cake to a nearby plate and taking a tentative bite.

The crinkle of her nose and subsequent recoil from her plate have Ardbert laughing outright.

“It’s very…dry,” she says after arduous chewing and swallowing. She reaches for the pitcher and pours herself a bit of water to drink. “You’re not missing much, I promise.”

But it’s enough to see her laughing, even if at her own expense, even if he can’t enjoy the food for himself, even if he can’t be there, in person, alive. It’s more than enough. He’s  _ happy, _ for the first time in so long, instead of heavy with the burden of sacrifice and loss.

“I’ll take your word for it. Now, how have you been? It’s been  _ ages _ since we’ve been able to talk.” 

And so she smiles, and she shares, and Ardbert listens. Even if it isn’t his real nameday, even if he can’t possibly remember what day that had been in the first place, the warm embrace of her company is enough of a gift in itself.

It’s  _ enough. _


	8. clamor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _a strongly expressed protest or demand from a large number of people_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one gave me some trouble so enjoy my tiny idle musings on the nature of war and violence and groupthink ✨

There will be clamor regardless of her choice, and yet more regardless of the subsequent outcome. This, the Warrior of Light knows more than most by now. Not every decision made can please every party, or even come close. Sometimes the best decisions, the most rational and well-thought and promising, please exactly no one.

But she didn’t necessarily  _ enjoy  _ the clamor, either.

Somehow over the course of her adventures she had managed to ally with both Ishgard’s people and the heretics in turn, summoning to her sides both the Azure Dragoon and the Lady Iceheart towards a common goal. A goal that had been distasteful to both sides.

A peaceful fade into the end of the Dragonsong War is not what either party envision.  _ Unity _ is as far off a dream as the forgotten history which tells that it was the desire of both sides, once. As both had endured battle for several generations, so they expect to endure it for decades and centuries to come. They expect the war to be won in a grand flourish, a genocide of either dragon or man, and both sides have enough bloodlust and hatred for the other that they’ve concluded death to be the only end to this conflict.

They do not want tidal recession in the quiet of treaties and negotiation. They want the carnage of a mighty wave, of destruction further befitting destruction that had been wrought by the hands of both dragon and man over the course of the war. But that would only lead to more death and more war and no answers for the people on both sides who have suffered quite long enough.

So she isn’t exactly surprised to hear whispers and jeers of distaste in the streets of Ishgard or among the towns of Dravania as she passes through. As the foreigner who came with solutions both sides found detestable, yet nonetheless receiving support from authority figures on both the behalf of heretics and Ishgardians alike, it’s only natural for them to despise her thus. It has never been about being  _ liked. _

It’s about saving people, and the world. It’s about uniting, instead of dividing, and bringing to light what was once hidden away. It’s about understanding.

And so, she thinks, let them clamor for now. As much as she can be a hero for the people of Eorzea’s nations, she can be the bearer of all Coerthas and Dravania’s animosity. Eventually, once their hatred quells to half-remembered folly, they will understand with hindsight that the path she treads — one of peace and mutual understanding — is the right one.

So long as she can fulfill her duty.


	9. lush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _(of vegetation) growing luxuriously_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the emet brain disease that i have where he just lives there rent-free always

“You look almost nostalgic, hero.” Emet-Selch’s voice is far closer than she expects to hear it as they trek through the Rak’tika Greatwood.

The others had split off into loose groups, with Urianger, Thancred, and Ryne at the front and Y’shtola with the twins in the middle. The Warrior of Light had agreed to bring up the rear and keep watch, but the splendor of the lush forest around them and her curiosity about the mysterious flora of this new land had proven quite distracting, and she had fallen further behind than anticipated.

“This place reminds me of the Source, somewhat,” she replies, carefully guarded as they walk. “I don’t know how much of Eorzea you travelled in your time.”

He shrugs and the gold accents of his uniform glint in the sky’s infinite Light. “Not only did Solus zos Galvus have eyes in every corner of the realm, but I also had the agency to take on any form and travel at will. I have seen most everything that your fractured Source has to offer.”

“And?”

His eyes narrow in her direction, before diverting forward to the path before them. “I was and still am quite unimpressed.”

“Yet you still saw fit to conquer it all,” she responds with a shrug. “Or try, at least.”

“You are deflecting,” he counters in that aggravating sing-song voice.

“I’m sure you remember the Black Shroud, then.” She looks to him and his brows are furrowed, but he still looks ahead instead of at her.

“More or less.”

“I spent a lot of time there,” she continues, letting herself dip into the warmth of memory for just a moment. The smell of the foliage, the sounds of animals as they went about their lives… The days and nights spent studying its aether as a scholar and attuning to its white magic at E-Sumi-Yan’s insistence. His eyes finally turn to her, bright gold, and though she tries to ignore them… She can’t. Instead she lets out a breath and continues, “This place bears a resemblance, somewhat. The natural serenity, the absence of man… Quite different from the bustle of the Crystarium and its surrounding lands. Though the plant life is quite foreign to my studies. Would that I had the time to document some of it for my own curiosity.”

Emet-Selch tilts his head to the side just slightly, and the glint of his earring catches her eye. “I’m sure there’s plenty of conjectures on this land’s flora in the Cabinet, or even Urianger’s abode.”

She grins, “But how much of it has been studied since the flood? How much  _ before? _ Or comparison studies between the two, on how it has been morphed by the aether over time? And much of  _ that  _ study bleeds into the observation of sin eaters — has the flora of this land been warped in the same way as some of the fauna tends to be? How much of  _ that _ has been studied? Not many could get close enough to a sin eater to study it and live to write the report.”

He opens his mouth to reply, snarky comment no doubt perched on the tip of his tongue, but she continues before he can say his piece. “Alas, the lightwardens and an Ascian who would both rather see this world destroyed than studied and understood keep me far too busy for such idle fancy. And so I will observe from afar as I travel and muse in silence.”

She entertains the thought of studying the land once their fight is over and their duty fulfilled, but the Warrior of Light knows better than to hope for such an opportunity. She can consider that once she gets there.

One step at a time.

Emet-Selch hums his acknowledgement, seemingly lost in thought. The Warrior of Light waves a hand idly, eyes catching on a distant animal nest that wants for study. She stays on the path, though, as she says, “I’m just grateful for the opportunity to observe what I can, honestly. Norvrandt is so beautiful.”

“You don’t long for the Source?”

“Ah," she says, raising a finger in his direction, "but you forget I can move between worlds at will, and with the full extent of my person intact.”

Emet-Selch sneers in her direction, even as she grins. “That does not answer my question.”

Her grin melts and she sighs, averting her eyes towards the blinding skies above. She stops walking and he follows suit as their friends wander ahead towards the livable parts of the forest. Somewhere past all that Light is her home, she knows, but it all feels so distant. “I do. You  _ also _ seem to forget that it was not my will that brought me here. But… These people are  _ people _ like any other. Like the ones back home. And if I have the capacity to help them, I will. My own desires come second to my obligations when innocent lives are at stake.”

Emet-Selch hums again, though his attention does not roam elsewhere as it had before. In fact he seems fixated, concentrated in a way that makes her fidget uncomfortably.

“Now  _ you _ look nostalgic,” she says when the silence between them grows too great.

He shakes his head and shrugs, deflecting. “Comes with the territory.”

“What territory, mass genocide?”

His gaze hardens and she meets it with her own, voice lowering with a sudden seriousness. “Perhaps one day you will understand the burden of memory for someone who has lived longer than you could possibly conceive. Perhaps  _ one day _ you will understand why we do what we do.”

The Warrior of Light watches Emet-Selch and she feels so vulnerable, somehow, despite the burden of confession being mostly on his side. Flayed raw by the depth of something in his golden eyes that she could not possibly comprehend. But…

“I hope I will too.” The burden of memory, the reason they toil, the depth and the grief and the impossible plight he bears within the cavity of his chest — she would come to understand them all, or die trying. “For your sake and for mine.”

Emet-Selch holds that hard, heavy gaze for the span of a few heartbeats, until he turns and disappears into a violet portal, leaving the Warrior of Light with only the ambiance of the forest and her own turbulent thoughts.

With a shaky sigh, she quickens her pace down the path and towards the others.


	10. avail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _help or benefit_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.3 spoilers, just a little itty bitty g'raha comfort

It’s dangerously close to deja vu when he knocks softly on her door, fretting with nerves as he had back on the First. It had been so different, then — and for the both of them. His identity, her circumstances, the world around them… All that had happened between then and now had changed history irrevocably, that much is plain, but it had changed  _ them _ as well. After his many mistakes, after her forgiveness, after their trials and the pain endured to reach this point, the course of their relationship had been altered forever.

G’raha can only hope it is for the better.

He had come up with some paltry excuse to seek her out but in truth, his visit is more meant to check on her. Getting her friends to the Source — and  _ him _ by extension — had been arduous, and several days had passed since he had caught word of her departure, even for a quick errand or a brisk walk for fresh air.

And so when she opens her door to reveal dark bags beneath her eyes and an exhaustion to her frame that hadn’t been present even when she bore the entirety of the First’s Light aether in her body, G’raha’s reason for seeking her out immediately leaves his mind.

“Are— Are you alright?” he asks intelligently. It takes her a moment to recognize him past her haze, but he can’t tell if it’s due to her grogginess or the novelty of his existence in her life again.

“G’raha?” she stands up straighter, looks around to find him alone. “What’s— Is something going on?”

“No, I was just—” his planned excuse melts at the sight of her; he finds he is quite done lying to her. “I hadn’t seen or caught word of you in some time, and thought it prudent to check on you.”

Additional weariness creases her brow as she contemplates for a brief moment, before stepping aside and gesturing with a soft voice, “Come in.”

He enters the dim room and she turns, a strange look in her eyes that she can’t turn towards his own. “I’m sorry. It’s…been difficult, of late. After everything.”

G’raha finally recognizes what he should have seen from the first. This is not illness, this is not mere aetheric exhaustion—

This is grief.

“It is nothing to apologize for,” he responds with a soft voice, taking a step closer. “You above all others have endured unimaginable hardship after everything. It is understandable — nay,  _ expected _ that you require some rest. Even if you are the esteemed Warrior of Light.”

The smallest hint of a smile graces her lips, but its light does not reach her eyes. “Right.”

“And— It pains me to see you as such,” he concludes, and her face twists. “Is there any way I can help?”

She shakes her head dismissively. “You don’t need to—”

“But I  _ want _ to.” The insistence takes her by surprise and she finally looks to him. “Please. Avail yourself of—”  _ me, _ he almost says, but thinks better at the last, “of whatever I can do for you.”

She contemplates for a moment, frowning. “I don’t… I don’t want to talk about it. Not yet.”

“Then we won’t talk about it.”

The Warrior of Light looks to G’raha, finally, and some of the hardened sorrow of her visage melts. “I… I just want to be close to someone. I can’t— I’m not ready to see anyone else. I’m not ready to face them.”

He thinks to her usual haunts, her usual preferred company, and she has the right of it. None on the Source would understand her loss. Even those who came with her, those with more than a simple inkling of what she endured, wouldn’t fully grasp the depth of her emotion. That she feels ill-equipped to face even  _ them _ of all people is…troubling, to say the least.

“Then I will stay.” He offers her a smile, the most soothing in his arsenal. The small smile she gives in response finally,  _ finally _ reaches her eyes.

He has been many things for her in the past but this time, this time he will be what she needs.


	11. ultracrepidarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _expressing opinions on matters outside the scope of one's knowledge or expertise_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a tiny look at early shadowbringers in the form of a conversation i wish we got to have

“Can’t you just— I don’t know, send them back?”

The Crystal Exarch sighs, shaking his hooded head. “Alas, it would require magic far beyond my ken at the moment. Our efforts should be focused on the lightwardens for now.”

Her frustration surges and she doubles down, chest burning . “They shouldn’t  _ be here,” _ she insists. “I will remain here on the First. I will save this world or die trying. That is not the issue and does not need to be a point of negotiation. The issue is that you brought them into this when they should be back home! Home safe where I know their souls are in their bodies so I can sleep at night!”

“I know,” he replies, “and I apologize for my missteps. When this is over, we can work just as diligently towards sending both you and the others home, but for now—”

“Don’t apologize to me if you don’t plan to do something to fix it.” Her visage is stony but his face remains largely unreadable beneath his cowl.

“I fully intend to do so once this world’s safety is ensured.”

The Warrior of Light steps into his space. “They do not need to be here! Our home is on the brink of a war and they are the only people holding that world together and you’ve  _ taken them—” _

_ “I know.” _ His tone brokers no argument. A tense, heavy silence sits between them and festers. “You do not understand. I have researched at length and each time, I have returned empty-handed. And my regrets mount ever higher with each moment they are here and not in their true bodies, upon their true home world.”

“Then look harder! Try  _ harder!” _ She thinks she sees him flinch in response, but beneath that hood she can scarcely get a read on him. “I have pushed them near to breaking too many times by dragging them into my troubles and I’ll not have you force me to do it again.” The Bloody Banquet remains fresh in her mind, even after all the time that has passed. Her friends, scattered to the winds, all for a plot whose target had been  _ her. _ They had been collateral then and they are collateral here and the Warrior of Light has had quite enough of people being in danger for her sake alone. “For all we know their lives on both worlds are at risk by remaining here as long as they have!”

The Exarch’s fists clench at his sides for just a moment. He stays silent and his lips press together in a thin line as he crafts his response. “As I am now, I cannot send them back. I have researched extensively in their few years here and have found nothing. It is my own failing and I will take the blame for whatever may befall your comrades during their time here.” That takes her aback; his willingness to accept blame is…a start, she supposes. Better than a refusal to do so. “The sooner we take care of the lightwardens, the sooner we can work out a way to get your friends home. I promise.”

Her frown deepens, and she crosses her arms over her chest. “Your  _ promises  _ do not mean much to me right now. You have caused problems beyond counting for me and mine, on both this world and our home.” His face remains unreadable and it’s a frustration she didn’t expect to have. Arguing this point with him is like arguing with a stone. But she sighs, and pushes the anger out of her mind for a moment. “But if there is truly nothing for us to do until the lightwardens are slain, then so be it. The moment this is over, you will fix this.  _ We _ will fix this.”

The Exarch nods once. With that, heart still racing, the Warrior of Light takes her leave.


	12. tooth and claw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _with all one's resources or energy; fiercely_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the porniest i've gotten so far and it's with emet...that's just how it be. slight 5.3 spoilers but don't think too hard about it

She knows not how she has marked him.

Emet-Selch knows this for fact. Oh, she may mark him with fang and claw, rending red marks into his borrowed, ephemeral flesh as she takes him apart piece by piece, but she will never know the depth or breadth of those markings, nor the context that colors their meanings to him. Those memories are lost to all but him — but he cherishes them as the precious gems they are, treasures wrought from a distant past.

And so he does not protest when her lips find the hinge of his jaw, nor when her teeth scrape against delicate flesh. Instead he sighs and tightens his grip on her waist, so delicate between two mortal hands though he knows her stature belies her strength.

He sighs once more when a wandering hand finds his length through his robes, groping and coaxing it to hardness, making her intent more than plain. Her other hand stays grasping his forearm, and even beneath his clothes he can feel her nails as they struggle to rend crescents into flesh.

Each sensation against his skin leaves him more wrought than the last. His hands itch to  _ take _ but he maintains his restraint for the time being, letting her set the pace and take what she will of him.

Would that she could take it all.

There had once been a time when she would, when the world and she were whole and perfect. There had once been a time when she remembered him, remembered  _ them _ in a more substantial way. When she would return to Amaurot joyous, full of life and stories and laden with souvenirs of her travels…

That had been so long ago. A thousand, thousand lifetimes. It is enough to have her now, fractured and scarred and so very different from what he remembers.

But then she sucks a bruise just beneath his ear, high enough that no collar will cover it properly, and he wonders just how different she truly is from the Azem he remembers.

Emet-Selch feels her grin against his neck as he lets free a wanton moan from lungs that have been holding back too much for too long. She chuckles and her breath against him sends shivers through him like ripples across the surface of a still lake.

“Is that all you have to say, o esteemed Emet-Selch? Have you no words for me?”

He breathes a laugh and pulls her hips to align with his own. “You have rendered me speechless once again, my dear.”

“Again?” she asks, leaning into him. “You say that as if we have done this before.”

Her words are punctuated with another nip of teeth lower on his neck. He tries to find the words but they won’t come; how could he qualify what they had shared? How could he explain his memories? How could he possibly make her  _ understand? _

Understand, for there is little that could make her truly remember.

“You have left me speechless a right many times,” he clarifies, “with or without the—  _ ah—” _ His thought is interrupted by another flash of teeth, another bit of applied pressure against his groin.

Another bright laugh puffs against his skin. “Well I surely hope this won’t be the last time.”

She pulls back to regard him and Emet-Selch watches her in turn, a long, searching moment as they breathe together. He searches for pieces of the woman he knew and though part of him knows that the similarities may well be coincidental, he cannot deny her thrall.

Even now, eons later, he succumbs.


	13. stratagem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch is grumpy magic Uncle to Ryne and teaching her to play checkers or chess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another free day old prompt wip! this one was particularly cute and fun to write. do not ask me about the logistics of this i do NOT know how to play chess. if there are mistakes that's because this is norvrandt chess and the rules are what i say they are

Emet-Selch sighs. Again. For perhaps the fifth time in as many minutes.

Ryne sits pensive, eyes locked on the board before them. Occasionally she reaches forward, towards one of the pieces, but backs off before she touches it, eyes darting back and forth across the board.

“It  _ is _ your turn to move, Ryne,” he says. It’s an unnecessary reminder, but his patience has worn thinner and thinner over the agonizing and mostly silent minutes. “We cannot finish this game if you do not go.”

She looks up, eyes wide and worried. “I can’t move anywhere,” she says, and Emet-Selch cocks a brow.

“Why ever not? The pieces are not stuck to the board.”

“But you—”

“That was  _ once _ , child. And to Alphinaud besides. I would not be so cruel towards you.”

She looks up at him, frowning, almost a pout. “You did it to Urianger, too.”

He raises his arms in a shrug, shaking his head. “I did no such thing. I have a large amount of respect for his studiousness, and the way he speaks like that without so much as flinching.” A pause, a moment to ponder, accompanied by the faintest hint of a smirk. “Y’shtola, however, is entirely capable of such trickery, and it is your folly to underestimate her.”

She gasps. “No!”

“Back to the  _ game _ .” He gestures with a gloved hand to the board ahead of him. “Make your move before I make it for you.”

Ryne is nervous for some mysterious reason, wringing her hands where they lay in her lap. “I can’t. No matter where I go, I will lose a piece in the next turn.”

_ Ah. _ It suddenly makes sense. “Part of the game is losing pieces, Ryne. You cannot save them all.” The broken look on her face in response twists his heart, wrings it out like a wet cloth. “It is how you use those pieces to protect your more important pieces and take your opponent’s that wins or loses the game. It is the nature of strategy.”

She sits back in her chair, deflated as she observes the board.

Impeccably timed, as ever, the Warrior of Light approaches their table and levels her stare at Emet-Selch.

“What did you do?” she asks, arms crossed over her chest.

He shakes his head, hands raised. “I merely offered to teach her the fundamentals of strategy through a board game.”

Her eyes dart to the board, taking in the pieces and their placements for a few moments.

“Move this one here,” she says, pointing to one piece and then a place on the board. Emet-Selch observes her move with narrowed eyes. “It protects your most important piece and he can’t move against the others.”

“But he can move against that one,” Ryne counters.

“Ah, but will he?” the Warrior of Light responds with a grin, gesturing to the board. “He might gain a little by taking this one, but if he moves anything there, you can immediately take it in the next turn. And he can only move  _ these _ pieces there in time, instead of the pawns. He would lose even more than he would gain. The game is not only about keeping your own pieces safe, but predicting what your opponent will do and how you can take advantage of that.”

And she is absolutely right, to the very letter. And explained so clearly to someone so unfamiliar with the game. It had been the best and only option in Emet-Selch’s mind as he observed, but revealing his plan would have ruined the fun of the game, though he had promised to teach her. Most of that teaching had been meant to happen in  _ practice, _ rather than simply being told outright, but he can do little against the Warrior of Light’s assistance.

Ryne considers this for a moment, studying the board for the hundredth time, before relenting and moving as the Warrior of Light had told her.

_ “Finally,” _ Emet-Selch sighs, sitting up in his chair and stretching. His spine pops in several places with the motion, and Ryne cannot help but laugh at his dramatic outburst.

The Warrior of Light pulls forth a chair to sit next to Ryne, watching Emet-Selch with one eyebrow raised. “Mayhap together our sympathetic hearts and strategic minds can offer you something of a challenge.”

He levels them both with a grin, settling back as he contemplates his next move. “One can only hope.”


	14. part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _leave someone's company_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> somehow the first thing that came to my mind for parting with someone was how we had to part with all of our friends going into HW and well here we are i guess. enjoy some bloody banquet departures

They part in twos, until but two remain.

The banquet had been bloody beyond what they possibly could have anticipated. A tension had been choking the air around them, despite the claustrophobia of so many people gathered in one place. The anticipation of something going so horribly wrong, of something catastrophic to ruin the plans so painstakingly laid. A hall filled to bursting wtih so many strangers with stranger motives and their own agendas to push, ripe for the political assassination. Even the Ishgardians, with their reservedly amiable spirits, had been vast harbors for hidden deceit and the possibility for treachery.

The Scions had never expected the fire to start within their own house.

It had started with the Sultana, firstly and foremost. Her collapse and the Warrior of Light’s subsequent framing had been but the first spark, the first ember of a forest fire fit to consume them all. Then came Alphinaud’s confinement at the hands of the turncloak Crystal Braves, and then Ilberd’s betrayal, and then Teledji’s murder and Raubahn’s frenzied rage — each event more gruesome than the last, and each escalating to a fever pitch until they could finally make a hasty escape.

The first to part are Yda and Papalymo, holding the line outside the royal chambers that the others might escape. Together, as had ever been their wont, and stubborn to the last. Even as Papalymo cuts off their own exit, even as they look back with some reassurance to Minfilia, to offer their greatest hope some of their own… They part.

The other Scions know full well that the entirety of the Flames and every Crystal Brave that had turned their cloak would be upon Yda and Papalymo within minutes. It is quite nearly a death sentence, though they know those two better than to underestimate both their capability in battle and their ability to get themselves out of a messy situation. Though it pains them to leave the two behind, they had little other option.

Frantic sprinting finds them all in the damp caverns sprawling out from the city, the abandoned passageways built beneath Ul’dah long ago. They continue their escape through the darkness with little more than a handheld lantern to guide them, until they hear the hurried footsteps and muffled shouts of guards once again on their tails.

Y’shtola and Thancred are the next to leave, promising to hold the line that Minfilia and the Warrior of Light may fully make their escape. Minfilia protests once more, unwilling to let more Scions risk their lives again to get them out alive, but they assure her that this is what they need to do, this is their choice to make. Their gift, to ensure the dawn.

Tearfully, reluctantly, full of uncertainty… They part.

A rush of aether blows through the passageway as the Warrior of Light and Minfilia make their final escape. Minfilia stops in her tracks and hears Hydaelyn’s voice in her head, at first refusing Her call but after a pensive, troubled moment, she resolves. She tells the Warrior of Light that she must remain behind and offers little and less in the way of explanation — only that the Warrior must go on, and she must remain behind.

Her final comrade, her final friend left after all this strife and woe… With all the others scattered and broken and lost besides it takes monumental strength to leave Minfilia behind. And without the knowledge that they might see each other again someday — Minfilia or any of the others.

But finally they part, leaving the Warrior of Light to escape alone.

She reconvenes with Alphinaud and Tataru at the last, the only others able to escape the banquet unscathed. They ask the difficult question and the Warrior of Light cannot answer them with words for fear of shattering.

Broken and battered and a fraction of their true number, the last remaining Scions depart for safer lands, dreaming of a day they can see their friends once again.


	15. ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _a continued or prolonged dull pain in one's body_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little twin fluff because i wanted to and it's what i deserve! thanks

The Light nearly consumes her, and this isn’t even the last of it. She feels it beneath her skin, flowing like blood within her, an ebb and flow of energy she should not be able to contain. But she _does,_ and each moment she holds it she can feel it tearing her apart, straining the meager seams holding her together.

She breathes in, and it flows. She breathes out, and it shifts and builds in the spaces left empty by her exhalation. It feels like nothing else, like an itch beneath her flesh, like dying ten times over and being more alive than ever before.

She can do little else but focus on the sensations, on the breathing and the flow and the arduous task of holding herself together just a little bit longer. The night finds the Pendants largely at peace but the roiling in her head and throughout her entire body refuse to grant her even a moment’s respite.

Three quiet knocks sound against the door. She almost misses them for the assault on her senses. But she pushes past them and swings the door open to find—

“Alphinaud?”

He stands in the doorway and raises a hand in a wave once he sees her, though his brow creases in concern.

“I came to check on… Are you quite alright? You look wan—”

“Have you eaten?” Alisaie barges past her brother and through the threshold with a bag slung over her shoulder. “We brought supper.”

The Warrior of Light cannot help but smile at Alphinaud as she gestures. “Please, come in.”

She shuts the door once both twins are inside, though Alisaie is already unpacking the food from her bag and setting it out upon the table. Alphinaud frets at the Warrior of Light’s side, nervously examining her aether.

“Are— Is— We can call Ryne, if you need her assistance, or I can try—”

“Alphinaud.” He quiets at her tone, and his sister snickers quietly as she works. “It’s okay. Truly. I have a handle on it for now. I should be fine until we leave for the Tempest.”

Alphinaud offers her a small smile, tucking his tome away. “Right. Well, at least tell me if you need anything. I have not Ryne’s mastery over Light aether, but I have some spells that might keep any surges at bay.”

“I thank you for the offer.” She looks over at Alisaie as she pours tea in a few cups. “What’ve you brought?”

“Sandwiches,” she says, “a recipe from back home. Thought you could do with a taste of nostalgia instead of…whatever fare the Pendants have available for tonight.” 

The Warrior of Light smiles and sits, eyeing the spread before her. “Thank you. I’m quite hungry now that I think on it.”

Alphinaud frets at this once more, taking his own seat as his sister takes hers. “Have you been eating? Have you been able to keep food down? Harboring so much aether is highly taxing on your form and neglecting its needs could be quite hazardous to your health.” He watches her take a bite of her sandwich, some of the tension melting from his shoulders. “Well, more hazardous.”

The Warrior of Light waves him off with a dismissive hand,. “I’m doing fine. Are you both well? I worry for you all without your bodies here.”

“Our health is slightly less important than yours is right now,” Alisaie deadpans. “But we’ve all been quite stable, all things considered. That or we’ve been too concerned with the lightwardens and Vauthry and Emet-Selch to notice.”

She hums an acknowledgement and stares down at her food, pensive for a moment as she considers the toll the past few weeks have taken on them all. The lightwardens and Vauthry and Emet-Selch indeed, and now their race to save the Crystal Exarch — to save _G’raha Tia_ — but it comes with the territory, she knows. Taking the mantle of something so vaunted as the Warrior of Light and now the Warrior of Darkness, and subsequently delivering on the responsibilities hefted by such a title—

“But enough about that,” Alisaie cuts through her thoughts. She blinks and looks up at the twins, who are watching her with no small amount of worry. But then she grins, and raises her tea cup to hide it. “You’ll never guess what I saw Thancred do yesterday.”

They enjoy each other’s company as they eat and then well into the night. The Warrior of Light finds herself grateful for the distraction from the ache in her soul, both from the light aether and the hollow dread that haunts her bones. It’s a welcome distraction and for the first time in so long, she feels _light._

So instead of dwelling on the weight of her world…she smiles, and indulges in this small respite.


	16. lucubration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _study; meditation_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for this in advance it's so silly and indulgent as hell. a little aside piece of my other piece dear apparition! all you need to know is that emet is a ghost. please enjoy i had so much fun writing this actually

Tapping. _Incessant_ tapping. Gloved fingertips, muted as they thrum against a tabletop. Impatient and irritable. The Warrior of Light exhales a quiet breath and turns a page.

“This is perhaps the most _boring_ thing with which you could waste my time.”

“Mm.” She jots a note into the margin.

Another few moments of silence pass as she continues to study. The Cabinet is blanketed in a cozy sort of quiet, as idle whispered conversations float through the air to make more of a white noise than a clamor. On top of the conversational silence is the hushed rush of rain as it patters against the glass. Emet-Selch deflates and slumps in his chair.

“You could be doing anything else.”

“Mm.”

“There are monsters remaining to fight,” he says with an offhand gesture. “The Crystarium Guard cannot possibly defeat them all alone.”

“Mm.” She turns a page. His gaze follows the gesture but she stays focused on her book, voice lowered to a whisper though not many are around to hear her. “They can handle it.”

He slumps forward and rests his head on the tabletop. The white streak of his hair falls across his nose and moves just slightly with his breath as he sighs again. “You don’t even have the decency to read something interesting.”

“Mm.” She opens another book laying next to him and flips through to a related section.

“Where did you even _find_ a book on the Allagan imperial lineage?”

“I have my… _Sources_.”

Emet-Selch raises his head an ilm, and drops it back on the table with a _thunk._ “That doesn’t answer my question. Genuine, non-speculative information about ancient Allag is hard for _me_ to find. And I _created it.”_

“What need have you for information if you founded the empire? No room in your _massive expanse of worldly understanding_ for Xande’s biography?”

“That’s not the _point.”_

She sighs and jots notes into the previous book, reading from the one by Emet-Selch’s head as she works. “If you must know, G’raha found these once I asked if there was anything in his collection about Amon.”

 _This_ catches Emet-Selch’s attention. He sits upright and narrows his eyes towards her, but she does not acknowledge him. A dramatic pause spans the space between them as he watches, but she merely continues notating one book with excerpts from the other.

“And what do you wish to know about Amon?”

One of her shoulders lifts in a noncommittal shrug. “His role in the empire fascinated me. And his mastery over the arcane was impressive even for his time. He resurrected Xande and I would know how.”

Somehow Emet-Selch’s eyes narrow even further. “Xande was a husk of his former self, broken irreparably by his intimacy with death.”

“But he did it.” She smirks, the first crack in her visage since she started studying. “Among other things. He seemed quite histrionic as well. Incredibly ostentatious, if this account is to be believed. A true thespian.”

She flips a few pages prior to a full-page illustration of Amon in his signature ensemble, posed not un-dramatically towards the portraitist. “I mean really, that _hat._ He _chose_ to wear that.” She finally turns that smirk towards him and he levels his most withering glare at her in return.

“Did you know anyone who chanced to fit that description as you founded it?” she asks. “Or did you take the mantle of Emperor Xande for your own as you did Emperor Solus?” She tries not to look too pleased as she watches his hackles raise.

“I was not Xande. Don’t be ridiculous. His soul was disfigured beyond any hope of salvation”

She quirks an eyebrow. “What about Amon?”

His lips press into a thin line and he averts his eyes. “What about Amon?”

“I just think his theatricality is interesting when compared to Solus’ notable patronage of the arts.” She rests her elbow on the table and props her chin on her hand. “Especially when paired with the knowledge that Solus was _actually_ an immortal. And a serial founder of empires throughout the ages.”

“If you wish to know about Allag or Xande you need only _ask,”_ Emet-Selch hisses in a whisper. “All this tedious lucubration is unnecessary and a waste of your time and mine.”

“How can I trust you to tell the truth?” she asks, turning her attention back to the books in front of her.

“Have I ever lied to you before?”

She shrugs. “First time for everything.”

Emet-Selch glares. In the pause she resumes taking notes in the margins, though the other book is still opened to the portrait of Amon. After a beat, he huffs yet another sigh and moves to shut the book and hide the picture, before remembering that present circumstances keep him incorporeal. Instead, he lets his head fall onto the desk once more in defeat.

“I’m beginning to suspect you’re doing this on purpose.”

“I am simply seeking an enriched and thorough education. If you’d like, I can open a different book for you to read.” She smiles then and looks up at him. “I’ll even turn the page every few minutes.”

“Of all the torturous ways you could enact revenge upon me for my terrible misdeeds against mankind, I did not think _boredom_ would be your preferred method.”

This wins him a laugh, though hushed in her attempts to stay inconspicuous, and she says, “There is nothing so lethal as time to be squandered.”

“Mm.”


	17. fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _gradually become faint, especially to the point of death_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about this. like most things it is not good. there's a zenos there if you squint

Like all things, she will fade.

Inevitably. Even for undying beings, even for those who had lived for eons, even for those who think themselves invincible—

There is no escape.

She knows this better than anyone, having courted death more than  _ people _ over the past few years. Even with the gaps in her memory she has tread too close to that line more than most others could possibly fathom.

It bears a horrible weight, one which she feels most keenly in moments like these. Moments when nothing is certain, moments when the danger isn’t the worst part but instead what comes  _ next, _ what  _ follows _ the danger. The terrible, murky future after danger has run its course. The knowledge that even when the current struggle has been overcome, there will be something  _ else. _

But what happens when the struggle isn’t overcome? What comes next?

She pushes herself up from where she lay on the ground but shaking biceps give out, leaving her immobile in the dirt. A figure looms above her, katana in hand, and it spells her death. After every fight,  _ this _ is her end. Alone, filthy, bleeding into the soil beneath her, lungs choked with smoke and ash as dark clouds gather overhead, threatening a storm of proportions untold.

_ At least it is not a quiet death, _ she thinks for lack of the ability to speak.  _ At least I tried, and I tried, and I tried. _

Like all things, she fades.


	18. panglossian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _naively or unreasonably optimistic_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha so those crystal braves huh? that sucked

In chaos and strife will come unity.

That’s what she told herself when the dust had settled, once she had escaped the fires and Lahabrea and the destruction of the Praetorium. She had to. The alternative had been a long road to apathy — to a world thrown into even more trauma than it already had been — in response to one single victory. And that apathy would lead to an Eorzea ripe for the conquering by the Garlean empire, and a hopelessness and helplessness that would spread from the humblest peons to the mightiest heroes.

Despite their efforts, members of the Alliance still bear distrust in the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Despite their fight and subsequent victory against Gaius van Baelsar, despite their unfaltering willingness to lend a hand in the fight against Primals, despite receiving little more than a handful of gil and a pat on the back in repayment. But they had held hope for more, for recognition that would further their goals to unify the Alliance against Garlemald and the Primal threat.

Until finally, finally a ray of hope shines from the darkness.

The Alliance approves and agrees to fund Alphinaud’s dream: the Crystal Braves. An unaligned Grand Company to fight for Eorzea and her peope without the strings of affiliation holding them back. They can answer calls for help at will, able to travel and assist wherever and whenever needed. People who can serve the realm regardless of birthplace or standing — not only within the Alliance, but globally.

Alphinaud has never been busier, and has never been so proud of something he created. It warms her heart to see both in concept and in practice. A bit of hope to follow so much conflict.  While their struggles do not end with their creation, the Crystal Braves represent a decisive step forward. A victory for the realm and for the Scions — one they desperately need. And the Warrior of Light will not squander this hope.


	19. where the heart is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _home_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a reader can have little a wol backstory that no one cares about. as a treat

She could never claim a home.

There are, of course, places which held her heart. Places she felt safe, places that could be home should she have the desire to call them such, but… It is hollow, in truth. Ephemeral.

Most of her homes had been taken from her. Through the gaps in her memory she knows that much at least: that almost every place she and her family had called home was razed to the ground, until she learned to make people her home—

And those had been taken, too.

Now she conflates _home_ with _loss_ and she knows she could never put that burden onto someone, no matter how the temptation strikes. So instead she sticks to rooms for let and inns, and the night sky alone if no other roof will shield her, as she has ever been the wayfarer.

Perhaps those stars can be her home, though they remain so far out of her reach. But is it not the nature of the stars to be viewed, and not touched? To be appreciated, and nothing more? Though she finds no particular safety beneath the sky she feels comforted by its expanse, by its presence. Even when clouds darken the skies, the stars will never leave her.

But they _cannot_ leave her, either, and there’s a melancholy to that notion that makes her heart ache. She does not seek to anchor to unchanging entities. Instead she vies for the solace of someone who is able to leave but _will not,_ the knowledge that they stay not for their very nature of existence, but for her.

Ishgard would perhaps be another choice, both for the comfort of its walls and the people within them. But she finds herself nearby less and less often, and she would prefer her homesickness intermittent instead of chronic. And the problem remains that home leaves or is taken more often than not, and after all she had toiled to keep Ishgard and her people safe and at peace, she could not suffer the consequences of subjecting more to the curse of her heart.

It vexes her endlessly. Even Emet-Selch had claimed Amaurot as his home, though he fashioned and raised it from the ruins of the one that had been lost to tragedy. With that, she could empathize, but the lengths to which he had been willing to go in pursuit of restoring it shattered him irreparably. She knows her home will be similarly razed, as it had so many times before, and she knows her heart cannot endure the endless pursuit of restoring it as he had.

So instead of in places and in people, she can fashion her home from what little she has left to her. Though she will not lower her guard, and though she will not allow herself to grow complacent… She can anchor her heart in the quiet cracks between battles, in the moments of respite and those with whom she shares them.

Perhaps an ephemeral home will fit her best, fleeting and ever-changing as she is. Perhaps her heart was not meant to take root but instead to float aloft between places and people who hold it dear.

Perhaps when all is said and all is done, she does not need a home.


	20. together, but never home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _who am I if I am not remembered?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another free day another wip halfassed into something resembling complete! and another big emet what-if
> 
> title from and inspired by [Stipulation — Go! Child](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k0q3KuCJqR4)

The Warrior of Light arrives in Amaurot alone.

Half-broken, frail, barely held together with strings frayed too close to snapping altogether, she enters his glorious city, the restored ruins of his home.

Of _her_ home, once.

But that had been so long ago, and she had been so different. So whole. More than she could ever dream of becoming now, more than she could fathom. Such a drastic scope is far beyond her, in her current state.

But it isn’t impossible, either.

That she came alone is promising— indicative of a willingness to cooperate, to leave her _friends_ and reach out to him of her own volition, at the very least. Whether it be mere curiosity or a genuine desire to work alongside him to rejoin their world, she came and is willing to hear his case.

An opportunity he refuses to take for granted.

She meanders her slow way through Amaurot’s phantom, stopping to speak with the scattered ghosts of their past or to watch the city’s horizon with wistful eyes. They dwarf her but she hears each one of them with a look that can only be a _fraction_ of a reflection of the true extent of her sorrow. A persistent cough seems to plague her, sending specks of white spattering across the stone at her feet, but she presses forth.

Eventually she finds the shade of Hythlodaeus, a reunion that Emet-Selch cannot bear to watch— so he doesn’t. Instead he waits for her to take her leave of that building and make her way to The Capitol. In search of Emet-Selch. In search of more.

Showtime, then.

The doors swing open as she enters, shoes clicking quietly on the floor yet echoing through the expansive chamber to signal her arrival. Emet-Selch, even more so than usual, feels the weight of the past upon his shoulders. It makes him feel so small — as small as she is, even — in the massive building.

“You arrived,” Emet-Selch says as she approaches. “And in one piece, at that.”

She inhales as if to speak but another bout of coughs takes her, more white ichor spilling forth to stain her lips and the pristine floors. Emet-Selch’s face twists into something like a scowl at that, but softened by his pity. He does not envy her the position of Warrior of Light, nor does he envy her the Light she bears.

When she finally forces her lungs to obey her will, her voice is ragged as the rest of her. “Congratulations,” she croaks, “you won. It is—” another bout of coughing takes her and the resultant Light stains her lips and chin, “It is too much to bear.”

Were his heart not so broken by her agony, he would raise a curious eyebrow. But this does not feel like a victory, and he will not gloat. “And your friends?”

Her face twists, then, self-loathing and hurt and regret all swirling about her visage like a dark cloud. “I cannot subject them to this. I cannot let them see me broken.”

“Are you broken, hero?”

A ghost of a smile crosses her features, a spark of the fight to which she had so adamantly clung as she trounced one lightwarden after the next. “Not yet.”

“But close enough that you have come here,” he says, and she looks to the floor and the Light spattered upon its surface. “Is your Oracle’s power not enough to contain it?”

“I will not put them at risk.” There is a strength in her resolve that pulls a particular vulnerability from Emet-Selch, one that makes him _soft_ though he wishes he were not. “Nothing is certain and I will not hurt them.”

“Quite noble of you,” he comments, “despite the fact that when you turn you will destroy them anyway.”

“If.” Her brows are set in a line when she grunts the word, and Emet-Selch cannot help but admire her tenacity.

“If. Though by the look of you, I would instead say _when.”_

“Is this all you have to offer me?” she barks. “Cruel taunts and _pity_ in your eyes? I ventured all the way down to your fucking _underwater city_ just to be the punchline of your jokes?”

The anger surprises him, above all. He straightens and loses his nerve to look at her. “This is not the end of your story,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” she replies, but the anger lingers. “Though it seems to be your goal.”

“Have I not maintained from the first that I sought _peace_ until it no longer was an option? Have I not tried to show my faith time and time again?”

“Then what do you want, Emet-Selch.” A weariness weighs her anger down; for once, she slouches lower than he does. “Why did you call me here?”

He sighs. _Right, then._

“To make you an offer.” He looks at her once more, despite how it twists his heart. “I will be frank: our ranks thin by the day. The ranks of those Ascians with the capacity to contain the memories of their forebears, to occupy the seats of those who came before. But I happen to know that you would have much more than the capacity for that, should you wish to do so.”

Her eyes narrow in his direction. “Say what you mean.”

“Though you are sundered, we have methods of restoring memories to the souls of those we have maintained. Namely, the Convocation.” She has no remark to answer that, so he continues. “As you know, Elidibus and myself are the only two Ascians who have been alive since the world was whole. But we imbue those who are capable of taking the seats of Ascians lost to the Sundering with memories, that they might know their purpose and role in all this.”

“And stuffing the memories of a long-dead Ascian into my head is supposed to fix everything?”

“Yours is…a unique case. As you are no doubt aware by now. While I cannot be sure, with your soul as distorted as it has become… I have reason to believe that yours was the fourteenth seat. The seat of Azem.”

She pauses at that, stunned at the notion. “I’m…”

Emet-Selch does not let her continue the thought. “And thus I believe this convergence of memory and soul could quell your Light, or at the very least give you the agency to contain and control it.”

She considers for a long, troubled moment. “I would have to give up everything. I would have to give up the world I love to instead create yours.”

“But you will be whole. And you will not be alone.”

“This does not feel like a choice,” she murmurs, and it’s as much of a concession as Emet-Selch can hope to gain.

“I will not bar your escape should you wish to return to your friends. I merely offer another option.” His voice softens as he remembers, and remembers, and grieves the woman standing before him — but with any luck, he grieves for the last time. “A path of lesser tragedy.”

“I don’t…” she swallows thickly, throat tight with tears unshed. “I don’t want them to forget me. Who I was before this. I don’t want the world to forget me.”

He reaches forward and caresses her cheek, a touch from which she nearly flinches, but in the end it is what pushes the tears to falling. “They will not. And you will not.”

Emet-Selch extends that orange stone to her in his other hand, the one he had made in secret on her behalf. It almost seems innocuous in its simplicity, though he knows the lengths he had taken to craft it, and what it will mean if she takes it.

She takes the stone, and Amaurot receives her wayward daughter once more.


	21. foibles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _(of fencing) the weaker part of a sword blade, from the middle to the point_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *smash bros voice* a new catboy approaches!

She weaves her spells with expert ease, flowing between black and white mana until both turn to red, and then—

She charges forward, corps-a-corps, but her footwork betrays her and she stumbles into the training dummy. It steals the strength from her initial riposte and the tip of her rapier catches onto the fabric of the dummy, and she does not even try to continue the zwerchhau.

“It doesn’t make sense!” She backs away from the post and sticks the tip of her rapier into the soil at her feet. The crystal remains aloft beside her, idly floating next to her head as she fumes. “The sword is too small to do anything— I feel like I’ll snap it in half if I’m not careful!”

“You certainly can if you handle it like one of those massive blades you tend to wield,” X’rhun chides, arms crossed over his chest. “And you won’t last much longer than your rapier if you barrel into the enemy like you’re wearing plate mail instead of mage robes.”

She  _ hmmphs _ at that and the beginnings of a sulk creep across her shoulders. “How is it supposed to do any substantial harm if I don’t put my strength behind it?”

X’rhun draws his rapier and examines the blade thoughtfully, though the Warrior of Light watches with an unamused glare. “Well, red magery requires a much more delicate touch than that of…whatever else it is you do.  _ That _ art, while effective, is brutish and would snap the foible of your rapier.” He taps the middle of her blade with the tip of his own, a soft  _ clink _ of metal on metal. “This is a different tool, and you must wield it differently. Do you handle your cane the same as your lance? Or your axe?”

“But the  _ fundamentals _ of physical combat and aetherical combat are vastly different!”

“Yes, and the red mage takes advantage of both combat styles to weave together a strong, elegant moveset.” He hoists the end of his rapier into a ready stance, pointed perpendicular to her to demonstrate. “Flexible grip, strong wrist. You needn’t choke the life from your blade to wield it. A red mage’s foil is light, and best used as an extension of the self instead of a maul with which to destroy.”

She holds her own blade aloft with his guidance and begins her spellweaving once more, a new determination set upon her brow. Within moments she brims with enough black and white mana to elicit the red, and when she rushes forward this time it is with the practiced ease of a dancer instead of the brute strength of a gladiator. One, two, and three attacks with her blade strike in quick succession, and she jumps backwards in a flourish— And the smile on her face is bright enough that X’rhun cannot help but share it.

“You’re a natural," he says, trying to ignore the warmth in his chest. "Again.”


	22. argy-bargy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _noisy quarreling or wrangling_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE GRAPES!
> 
> 5.3 spoilers because i simply cannot help myself

“I don’t see why it’s such an issue.”

Hades sighs. “Someone absconded with a concept! A _dangerous_ concept which could have caused destruction untold if wielded by the wrong hands!”

Hythlodaeus’ face isn’t quite neutral enough to convince Hades of any innocence he might have in the matter. He lifts a not-so-fast finger, lips quirked up into the barest hint of a grin. “Not just any someone, mind you.”

“You say that as if it absolves you _or_ her of guilt. It does not.”

“Azem is perhaps the most capable person in all of Amaurot in handling and cultivating potentially dangerous concepts,” Hythlodaeus counters. 

A headache blooms at Hades’ temples. “You let Azem take this concept _outside of Amaurot,_ to a distant, doomed island that the Convocation had _already acknowledged and ordered its residents to evacuate,_ in the hopes of…what, exactly?”

“All with the goal of preserving the island’s livelihood!”

“The island that was _doomed—”_

 _“Was_ doomed, Hades. Azem halted the eruption with Ifrita’s power. The island was saved!” Hades quashes the urge to roll his eyes. And then quashes the urge to leap over the desk and strangle Hythlodaeus. “And on top of that, she returned the concept safely to the Architect’s Office upon her arrival in Amaurot. No harm was done.”

“For which I am eternally grateful,” he says between gritted teeth, “but my issue was not with the cause for which Ifrita was used. My issue is with you _authorizing the use of concepts without my permission._ Especially something so volatile as Ifrita! To be taken _outside of Amaurot!”_

Hythlodaeus’ attention shifts just slightly away from Hades for a brief moment to something behind him, and the grin he can’t quite hide widens by a fraction.

“What’s all this, then?”

Hades turns to see Azem approaching from the entrance, pace nonchalant as she snacks upon—

“Grapes?”

“Observant,” she deadpans, passing Hades to hand Hythlodaeus a small stem of fruit over the desk. “Your reward, for your valiant service to the realm!”

“I trust these won’t disappoint,” Hythlodaeus says. “I’m in the process of receiving quite the scolding on their behalf.”

She smiles, completely at ease and seemingly ignorant of Hades’ simmering temper. “It was well worth the effort, my friend.”

“I thought Elidibus was exaggerating,” Hades says, dangerously quiet. “You stole my concept…for _grapes.”_

“She did not steal Ifrita!” Hythlodaeus retorts.

_“You needn’t remind me of your complicity in this.”_

“Hades,” Azem tries with her most placid tone, “no harm was done. I requested expedited permissions as befit a member of the Convocation, and Hythlodaeus was kind enough to accommodate. He was simply following orders. If you have issue to take, take it with me.” She holds some of the fruit towards him. “And my grapes.”

“And the grapes!” Hythlodaeus reiterates through the process of eating one.

Hades presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and practices restraint. “And…the grapes.”


	23. shuffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _get out of or avoid a responsibility or obligation_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more 5.3 spoilers but they're babey. *paperwork approaches* *tank stance off*

The Warrior of Light is nowhere to be found.

Alphinaud exhausts all the possible individuals who could know where she might be. None of the Scions — not even  _ Thancred _ whose ability to find people is well-renowned — knows where she is, nor do the merchants of Revenant’s Toll, nor do Tataru or Krile. Alisaie points him towards F’lhaminn, who points him towards Arenvald, who pleads ignorance quite fervently and flees in a rush.

The last possible bastion is G’raha, whose recovery has been progressing well since his tenure within the Crystal Tower. He jumps at Alphinaud’s approach and is seemingly caught off-guard as he takes a bite of his sandwich.

“You haven’t seen her either, I take it?”

G’raha’s ears perk upwards and part of his sandwich threatens to fall out of the bread holding it together. “Ah! Er— Who?”

“The intended recipient of  _ these,” _ Alphinaud responds, holding two stacks of parchment in either hand and gesturing at each in turn. “Correspondence and intelligence reports, from the Alliance and other avenues. Other accumulated paperwork as befits the station of the Warrior of Light.”

“Right! Yes! Her!”

Alphinaud waits politely for him to answer, but receives only silence in response. “Have you seen her? Where is she?”

“Oh, well— She—” G’raha’s eyes dart around the Rising Stones but most everyone has taken their leave for the evening. Even F’lhaminn has seemingly disappeared from her post behind the bar. “I… I saw her leave a few hours past, but I did not think to ask where she may be headed,” he finally manages to string together.

“Do you know who might have?” Alphinaud asks, adjusting his grip on the mound of paperwork. “I would prefer to shirk these papers onto her, considering she is their intended recipient.”

“Ah! You can, uh, leave them here. With me. I will ensure their safe delivery. When she returns.”

Alphinaud almost narrows his eyes, but his gratitude overwhelms his suspicion. “Thank you, G’raha. I’m glad to be rid of this. I don’t see how she manages to juggle so many roles and correspondences. And without so much as a proper  _ mailing address. _ It’s a wonder she receives these at all!”

G’raha laughs, tail twitching behind him. “Right.”

With that, he sets the pile on the table with a  _ thunk _ and pats it with no small amount of relief at being rid of it. “I will leave them in your capable hands.” Alphinaud waves a hand and heads for the exit. “Thank you once again.”

“Of course!”

Alphinaud leaves the Rising Stones with his shoulders upright, finally unburdened of the weight of paperwork in his satchel and arms. A second passes, two, before the Warrior of Light pops up from behind F’lhaminn’s bar.

“Seriously?!”

“I apologize!” G’raha says. “He caught me off guard! I didn’t know what to say!”

“Clearly!” She walks over to the stack and starts shifting through, pulling one or two letters out of the sizable stack she deems worthy of preservation.

“And you could not…receive these yourself?”

“No,” she says without missing a beat. “Alphinaud is a gem, but he does not recognize the difference between things that are worth my time and things that are  _ not. _ And more often than not he insists on  _ helping _ and I can’t possibly say no to him.”

“…Right.”

She tucks the few letters away in her bag and makes for the exit, leaving the pile of parchment strewn across the table.

“And what do you intend to do with these?”

The Warrior of Light turns and grins towards G’raha over her shoulder. “They’ll make good kindling. Keep the hearth going for F’lhaminn, would you?”


	24. beam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _(of a light or light source) to shine brightly_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.0 spoilers hello darkness my old friend

She has made herself a beacon.

That much had been plain after she absorbed the light aether from Vauthry, though she could not quite hold the full extent of it on her own. But even as her body collapsed and threatened to turn, she had been nearly blinding in her radiance.

As someone who so often dwells in darkness, it had been difficult for Emet-Selch to look upon. But not impossible. In fact he felt he owed it to her to look, and so he did, and her light burned itself into his retinas. A permanent stain on his vision, a blind spot in the shape of  _ her. _

He sees that blinding light once more when she and her friends descend to the Tempest upon the back of Bismarck, unmistakable even through the murky darkness so far beneath the surface of the water. It pulses and flows differently than his preferred darkness, barely sustained by the Oracle’s abilities as they traverse. Where his darkness flows and seeps, her light pulses and invades with an aggression not wholly under her control.

He cannot imagine the strength it takes to hold back such an influx of aether, especially not in a body as distressingly mortal as hers. Even as she finally stands before him, as he finally says his piece and resigns himself to their fated clash, it bursts from her in erratic waves and surges not even sweet Ryne could hope to stave.

She maintains this strength as she and her companions trudge through the shattered, burning ruin of his home, fighting constructs of the monsters that once threatened his world. And then she finally stands before him, friends fallen around her without so much as touching him despite their efforts towards doing so. She still radiates light barely contained within her form, even as it violently surges and she collapses before him.

In His name, he will see that light erupt. In His name, that light will engulf this and every world.

For  _ their  _ world to become whole again. Emet-Selch can do no less.


	25. wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _a desire or hope for something to happen_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a baby aymstinien/estimeric for the soul. ishgard sando if you squint. please squint

For the third time in as many minutes, his gaze drifts from his desk to his window.

The pane is sealed shut against the cold Ishgardian night, as it has remained for the past few nights now. To Aymeric’s considerable dismay.

He is to depart for Gyr Abania at sunrise with a contingent of Temple Knights and Lucia at his side. As much as he dislikes being so far from his home, his distaste for being away from somewhere Estinien can find him is far greater.

Four times, now, and still the night remains quiet. The window remains closed. Aymeric remains alone.

Estinien’s tendency to disappear for several weeks or even months at a time are no secret. Even as Temple Knights, he had not been wont to stay in one place for long, and this quality has only strengthened now that he has freed himself of the title and responsibility of Azure Dragoon. But it had ever been Aymeric’s wish to provide Estinien a place to which he can return, a place he can call home even if he strays away more often than not. An anchor, when the world decides to hold him aloft.

But now he must abandon that lonely, frigid vigil to instead attend his own duties with the Alliance, assisting in their war as they had in his own. It is  _ duty, _ it is  _ responsibility, _ and though it tears him asunder to leave as such, he knows his pining is secondary to the role he must play for Ishgard and for the realm as a whole.

Five times he looks to the window and five times he finds it stubbornly unchanged. Unoccupied. Dark. He catches a glint of candlelight off the inkwell in the reflection of the window, with clean parchment beside. If Estinien were to… 

Aymeric sighs, and sets quill to paper.

_ Estinien, _

_ Duty escorts me to the far reaches of Gyr Abania. I am to remain there with Lucia and a band of Temple Knights for some time, though we know not how long exactly. The Alliance has divulged only that they plan to advance upon and liberate Ala Mhigo, and I can only assume the specifics of that plan are to be detailed in person rather than by courier. I can also only assume that our mutual acquaintance will be involved somehow, though I have not received word of her return from Doma. _

_ Regardless— should this letter find you instead of myself, I offer my sincerest apologies. It is not my decision to leave as such, and even were it so, you know as well as I my duty to the realm. The debt I owe to the Alliance and to her, for all they have done for Ishgard. For us. _

_ I know not of constellations nor astrology but as I gaze out my office window for what must be the eighth time this evening, one star shines brighter than the rest. As a child, my mother told me that the brightest star holds a wish that could come true, with enough faith. It is a fanciful thing, to wish, and especially now that I am grown long past such whimsy. _

_ But this night, upon this star, I wish for our paths to cross. This time, I wish for you to find home— not here, necessarily, but with me. Wherever we may be. _

_ Yours,  
_ _ Aymeric _


	26. when pigs fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _used to refer to something that will never happen_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little bit of thancred and ryne banter. short and sweet because my brain is nacho cheese and september does not have 31 days as i previously thought

“Thancred?”

“Hm?”

“What are pigs?”

Thancred raises an eyebrow and looks at Ryne through the corner of his eye. “Pigs?” he asks, and she nods. “They’re— like porxies, with shorter ears. And they’re not fae. Farm animals, actually. Why do you ask?”

“Well… I spoke with the Warrior of Light yesterday.” Thancred suppresses the urge to sigh. “She looked truly exhausted, so I asked her if she could perhaps take a break for a bit.”

Thancred hums acknowledgement, still cleaning the blade of his weapon. It’s not unlike her to run herself ragged, and even less unlike herself to have something strange to say about it.

“And she said she had one planned coming up soon, so I asked when she planned it.”

That strikes Thancred as particularly odd. While she was known to take a personal day every now and again, she was rarely one to plan one out in advance, much less tell any of the others about it. “Oh?”

“She told me, ‘when pigs fly.’”

Thancred fully sighs, this time. “It’s a figure of speech. Meaning  _ never going to happen. _ Which is quite characteristic of her self-care habits.”

“But porxies can fly, and you said pigs are like porxies,” she counters.

“Yes, but pigs back home  _ cannot _ fly. In fact they’re quite weighty creatures.” Ryne does her best not to look so downcast about having been fooled as such, but Thancred pats her head. “Perhaps if we show her a porxie, she’ll think it a flying pig, and she’ll finally take a break.”

She turns big bright eyes towards Thancred, shining with excitement. “Do you truly think so?”

Thancred laughs at her eagerness, at her naivety. While he has all confidence in her ability to play along to appease Ryne, the Warrior of Light is a far stranger to the concept of slowing down.

But he can’t possibly dim Ryne’s optimism.

“Of course.”


	27. like a beast in repose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _so why don't you blow me a kiss before you go?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey. hi. sorry. so sorry about this. another wip free day. extremely super very much nsfw, this one. zenos heatfic. please do not perceive me

“Were it solely my decision, these chains would not bind you. You would run free and I would give chase, as the two of us are meant to do.”

The bars of the cell slam shut with a clang that screams of finality. The Warrior of Light keeps her back to the bars in the hopes of losing the cuffs binding her hands behind her back, but receives no such mercy from the Garlean prince who now plays the part of captor. She stands there as he speaks, hesitating a moment, before conceding and turning to face him.

“Alas… My father, in all his  _ boundless wisdom, _ has seen fit to merely keep you for the time being. Mayhap with time and patience, we will have our hunt… But for now,” Zenos gestures to the cell, “enjoy. I’m certain someone will come around to perform one experiment or another…eventually.”

She opens her mouth to speak but Zenos is gone before she can plead her case. Instead the breath comes out as a huff and her shoulders fall, defeated.

The Warrior of Light. Defeated.

“Shit.”

Thankfully, the cell isn’t completely sparse. A small bed that looks more like a cot sits up against the wall opposite the bars, outfitted with a sheet and pillow. Surprisingly considerate…considering. She pads over (she understands taking the weapon, and most of the armor, but why did they have to confiscate her  _ shoes, _ of all things?) and sits on the edge, preparing herself for an indeterminate amount of time to be spent staring at blank walls and trying to keep ample blood flow to her arms while they’re wrenched behind her back.

She gets bored after what she estimates is ten minutes but is in actuality closer to three, and lays in the bed to stare at the ceiling instead. Met with nothing but the hum of an air circulation unit, the scent of stale cotton and steel and emptiness.

At first.

As it always does, her heat starts with a gradual heightening of senses. The sounds come clearer to her ears: the air circulator, the footsteps of guards down several adjacent hallways, muffled conversations and the gentle whirring of nearby machinery. The scents grow more profound— enough so that several new scents catch her nose, particularly one of iron and lightning and smoke, but suffocated beneath something  _ else. _ Something entirely foreign.

Something that makes her  _ yearn. _

Soon after she realizes exactly what is happening, the other symptoms crash into her. The restlessness has her sitting up, fidgeting with her hands that are still locked behind her back, testing their give but finding little. Frustration mounts at that and the warmth spreads from her chest without so much as a moment’s respite. She stands and begins pacing in the cell as her skin crawls, as the deepest ache begins settling in her gut. The cell is quite cold but she’s  _ sweating. _ And still that scent lingers on the other side of the cell, by the door, tantalizing. Her pacing brings her closer to it and it’s  _ stronger _ somehow, and  _ more. _ More than she can handle, and yet not enough, she wants—

And then comes the final symptom, the  _ point _ of it all.

It creeps beneath the other symptoms, going largely unnoticed until she realizes that the heat is pooling in her core and that with every step it intensifies every scant bit of friction between her thighs. The arousal is enough to have her crawling back into the bed with a quiet whine in the back of her throat, curled up towards the wall beneath the thin sheet, trying to ignore the sensations assaulting her and resisting the nigh overwhelming urge to rut against any available surface.

She tries to reach and soothe the urge herself but her hands remain bound. She whines again, louder, the frustration only compounding the heat and the  _ need. _ The Garleans had not meant to torture her — if they had, she would not be in a cell, walking on her own two feet with even so much as a  _ soft surface _ to lay on — but it seems they have done so by mere accident.

What horrid timing.

“Timing for what?”

She almost dismisses it as more noise from outside the cell but it’s so loud, and then that scent hits her again with a wave of warmth and arousal that she cannot possibly ignore.

The scent of levin, and the earth after a thunderstorm, and the tang of blood from a split lip. All lurking beneath the heat and presence of something foreign on the air that makes her  _ clench. _

She scrambles to push herself upright again with no small amount of armless effort, and turns to see Zenos once more standing in front of the bars. His heavy plate has been exchanged for a tight black shirt beneath an ornate white coat, plain pants and boots, weapons stowed safely elsewhere. Her core clenches again at the mere sight of him and she would worry about the blush rising to her cheeks if her whole body were not already ablaze.

She barely bites back a moan, at that. Barely.

“Nothing,” she pushes through gritted teeth, turning away from him. She hopes for a moment that not looking at him will make it a little easier but the scent still drives her mad with lust, enough to have her panting with light breaths.

He squints in her direction, scrutinizing. “Are you feverish? Did one of your wounds become infected during battle?” With a few clicks the bars slide open to admit him, and he approaches as he continues, “We cannot have you weakened by disease, I simply would not abide you falling to something so—”

_ “Please…” _

The whine is quiet, but clear in the otherwise silent room. He stops mere ilms away from the edge of the bed and the scent — of  _ him, _ she realizes in a heady rush — is overwhelming, consuming her in an urgent wave that screams  _ that one, please,  _ **_now,_ ** _ I need— _

“Beg pardon?” His voice is so low and so  _ close _ now that it nearly rolls through her. It makes her want him to talk forever,  _ please, gods, keep talking, don’t stop— _

The Warrior of Light clears her throat. When she speaks again, her words are clipped short, tone brusque. “None of my wounds are infected. I’m fine. Leave me be.”

Zenos raises an eyebrow at her, scrutiny all the more apparent now that he’s so close.

He’s so  _ close, it would be nothing to just— _

“Then why do you squirm, my friend?”

She holds her breath to quiet the whimper threatening to break free of her lungs. Her legs shift and that motion alone sets loose the breath in a shaky sigh. She makes the mistake of breathing in again and the smell is  _ so much, please, I need— _

She watches, helpless, as a slow realization finds him.

“Ah. I have read about this savage affliction. Quite unfortunate that it would find you here.” He pauses a moment, examining her form, and she feels his eyes upon her form like a physical touch. At that thought she  _ wants _ his touch, wants him to  _ take her, to fill her, to— _

“I could help you, if you so desire.”

_ Yes, gods, please, just— _

“I don’t need your help.” She wants her words to cut but they sound so weak to her ears, so breathy. She hardly convinces herself of the notion, much less Zenos. “I’ll manage on my own. J-Just… Just let my hands free and I can handle it myself.”

He grins. Her core tightens in another horrible clench.

“Oh, but you don’t have to.”

A wave of heat rushes to her face and she looks away from his piercing, ice blue gaze.

“I will not force myself upon you, do not be mistaken, and I would not speak of this elsewhere. As I said before, it is not my desire to keep you here. I merely extend the offer. You needn’t suffer alone, if you don’t want to.”

Her eyes make their way back to his form slowly, crawling up his torso and chest before finally coming to rest at his gaze. She shifts again and this time cannot suppress the whimper that escapes her lips.

She squirms in her bonds, trying to reach for him with immobile hands, and whines at her own inability. He’s so  _ close, _ if she could only just—

“I would hear it in your own words, my friend,” he says, low, each word like a bolt of lightning through her. A hand raises to caress her cheek and it’s all she can do to not press into the touch, to not seek more, to not turn and take one of his fingers in her mouth and  _ suck— _

“Tell me what you need.”

She sighs, shaky, and the last vestiges of her pride deteriorate.

_ “You.” _

A breath passes between them, tense with her confession, before Zenos’ lips crash into her own with reckless abandon. She moans into his touch, his kiss, writhing to try to get hands on him. One of his hands moves to cradle beneath an ear while the other drifts down to her waist, sliding beneath the hem of her top to rest on the scalding skin of her hip. She surges into the touch and moans,  _ if only she could just— _

He eases her down onto the bed and finds his place between her spread legs. She feels so exposed like this, so raw and open and aching, but Zenos surprises her in his generosity. He wastes no time in slipping those fingers at her hip beneath her trousers to stroke her sex, a motion that draws a long, deep moan from her chest. Even over her smallclothes it’s enough to push her over the edge of a sudden orgasm as he strokes her folds over the thin fabric, fingers coming to rest atop her clit. The moan tightens into a desperate cry and she shakes like a leaf beneath his touch, as he presses firmer into the bundle of nerves and his fingertip works in a slow circle around it.

But it’s  _ not enough. _

His low chuckle sounds past her desperate gasps as she comes down, though she knows that the satisfaction won’t last long and her arousal has no plans to be sated by only one climax. “Was that all you needed, my friend? Might I be on my way?”

Her legs snap shut around his hips and she hisses,  _ “No.” _

The motion slows his touch, just slightly, but he grins and leans into the hold. “As you wish.”

Zenos retreats just slightly, enough to slide her trousers and smalls down her legs to be discarded to the side. The Warrior of Light spreads her legs once more, on full display — a display which the prince consumes greedily, hungrily, unabashedly. He crouches in front of her and shifts close, sliding two broad hands up her thighs to spread her even further.

“So wanton… To think your body is doing this to you without your permission. So unashamed in the way it  _ wants _ any suitable mate it can get between its legs.” One hand slides up to part her sex and he presses his lips to a thigh absently, listening to her breath quicken. His voice lowers to a purr as he continues, “And to think you were fortunate enough to find a willing partner in a place such as this.”

“F-Fortunate…” she parrots, unable to muster the mental acuity for much beyond the haze of her pleasure and the desire that sings so harmoniously through her.

Zenos continues to kiss a path up her thigh, closer and closer still towards her aching cunt where she wants him most. The grip on her other leg tightens as he gets closer, until finally his tongue licks one slow stroke along her folds to her apex.

_ “Ohh… _ Please, I…” she keens at the touch, back arching. The sensation sends another shock of warmth through her body and he takes that motion as encouragement to continue in slow, languid, light strokes against her while she squirms against her cuffs.

He hums an inquisitive note against her and she moans louder, rolling her hips into his slow movements to spur him onward. She can’t get a good angle to do much more than squirm, though, as his slow licks quicken their pace, still so light against her.

_ “More,” _ she demands, squeezing thighs around his ears in the hopes that he’ll obey. Gods if she could just get her  _ hands— _

His lips close around her clit suddenly and she tenses around him, and it only takes one forceful  _ suck _ to send her careening into another climax headlong. The tip of a finger presses into her as she shakes, whining with such little room for shame. A blaze spreads through each ilm of her body as she comes down, twitching and trembling with overstimulation as he continues licking at her, one finger pumping in and out of her at a languid pace.

“Zenos… I-I need…” Another finger presses into her alongside the first and her back arches taut. The stretch and the friction scatter her plea into a high-pitched keen, unintelligible save for its lewd implication of a desire for  _ more. _

She can  _ feel _ his smirk against her sex, lips turned upwards where they press against her folds as his tongue continues working against her at a brutal pace. That motion alone has the need striking through her like levin, like a physical blow. As if each thrust into her strikes a bell, a damning toll.

A third finger slides in beside the other two. They twist just so and once again she  _ shatters. _

“Ravenous…” His voice rolls through her like the evening tide when she finally becomes coherent enough to comprehend it. “Your hunger, your  _ desire _ truly knows no bounds. Uninhibited by your instincts.”

His fingers retreat and a truly pitiful noise emerges from her chest at the loss. He chuckles, another low hum that sets her hair on end, and stands upright before her. His eyes rove over her form where it’s splayed across the bed, so thoroughly dismantled by his fingers and tongue.

“You’ll have to forgive my…perhaps overzealous preparation,” he remarks, stripping to his smalls as she watches with hooded eyes. “Hopefully it will be enough.”

“Enough…?” she asks, but the question trails off into silence as he stands before her. Stiff length pressing a firm line against his smallclothes.

Her mouth  _ waters. _ She bites her lip to hold back a moan, to hide her shameful desire, but her legs spread of their own volition. Welcoming. She glances up at him and his gaze nearly burns in its hunger. She  _ feels _ that heat like a throb within her, and that moan shakes itself free of her lungs to leak out into the air.

Zenos steps closer and peels the tight fabric away. His hard cock springs free and she feels an entirely new wave of heat concentrating in her core, an entirely new  _ need _ that crept beneath the rest.

She wants  _ him, _ yes, but further than that, she wants to be  _ full _ of him.

A desire which, thankfully, he seems willing to indulge.

He does not rush, though, as he stands above her and strokes himself idly, enjoying the sight of the Warrior of Light as she squirms desperate and wanting beneath him. His free hand takes one of her legs and hoists it above her, exposing her further and testing the limits of her flexibility. Her hips raise of their own volition to meet him, and hopefully  _ his. _

“So eager.” He steps forward and lines himself up, pressing the tip barely against her entrance and rubbing it against the slickness with a hand at her hip. “But again, I would hear your desires from your lips.” He leans forward to put them face to face, just out of her reach but close enough that she can see his dilated pupils and the desire waiting within. “Tell me what you want, my friend.”

_ “Fuck me.” _

A groan tears from Zenos’ lungs as he penetrates her, finally, slowly pushing into her until their hips are flush together. Her own moans eclipse his as she savors the stretch, the feeling of being so  _ full _ even after taking so many of his fingers. They breathe together, still as they relish the sensations, until her patience wanes and she squirms, searching for  _ more. _

And oh, finally,  _ finally _ he grants her wish.

His thrusts start shallow at first, his grip on her hip holding her still. His hand nearly dwarfs her where fingertips dig into her skin, an anchor to Eorzea while her head stays afloat amidst the clouds. High-pitched whines tumble from her lips until he covers them with his own in a bruising kiss. His teeth catch on her lower lip and pull as he quickens his pace, simultaneously too fast and not fast enough.

“M-my hands… Please, let me—  _ Oh!” _ Her request trails off into a cry as he thrusts particularly hard, grip tightening against her hip. She tenses around his length as it splits her and squirms against the cuffs immobilizing her, hips grinding against his with each stroke to ride out yet another release. She can nearly see the cruel, wanting heat that builds in his groin but a determination creases itself across his brow as he watches her move against him, taking from him what little pleasure her bonds allow.

But apparently, that won’t do.

He pulls all the way out of her and she gasps at the emptiness, staring up at him in a panic. “N-no,  _ Zenos— _ please, I can’t, I need—”

A grunt breaks her pleas as he takes hold of her and flips her face-down onto the shoddy mattress. She pulls her knees beneath her hips to angle herself towards him, far beyond whatever shame would usually take her at such a lewd, desperate display. She turns her head to the side and sees him in her periphery, stroking himself in no rush as he smooths his other hand over the curve of her ass. The hand slides up to grip her wrists where they remain restrained behind her and he slowly presses back into her. The angle is different and it fills her beyond what he could before, a sensation that has her moaning low.

“Yesss…” she breathes, and hears him chuckle quietly in response.

He does not take his time as he had done before. Instead his pace quickens with an urgency, a need that betrayed his collected demeanor. Their hips meet with lewd staccato smacks, percussion to the melody of her moans and sighs.

“Insatiable…” he mutters, and she nods as best she can with her head pressed into the mattress. Each time he presses deeper, faster, using her bound arms as leverage to pull her into each thrust. It only takes a few moments for another orgasm to overtake her, this one an overwhelming wave of rushing heat as she finally finds some satisfaction of her need to be  _ filled. _

Zenos follows close behind as she rides out the waves of her climax, sliding in with one smooth thrust and shuddering with a low moan. His grip tightens on her wrists and the cuffs, and she would be complaining about the pain if she wasn’t so blissed out by a heat finally sated to the point where she can think straight. They breathe together for a few moments, reveling in the satisfaction, until she breaks the silence with a whine as he pulls out of her.

His grip on her arms finally loosens and as it does, she feels the chain of her handcuffs  _ give _ at last, allowing her shoulders some reprieve. But…

She does not get the time to pose her question Zenos before he gathers his clothes and dons them once more. With one last look at her, sprawled on the bed as she waits for the blood flow to return to her arms, he grins, and—

“Good luck, my friend. May our paths cross ere long.”

With that he takes his leave of the cell, leaving the bars wide open.

The Warrior of Light blinks, dumbfounded. But she knows an opportunity when she sees one, and she means to take it. She pulls her clothes back on and escapes captivity, not quite able to hide the grin on her face as she takes her expedited leave.


	28. irenic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _aiming or aimed at peace_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm ding! leftover varis thoughts fresh out of the microwaves and onto ao3. you're welcome

They should have known this would end in disaster.

Varis had talked around them all as if they were children pleading with their parents for extra dessert after dinner. It was infuriating,  _ humiliating, _ and Aymeric felt the blades of Varis’ words cut most deeply.

As the only member of the Alliance without significant history with Garlemald Aymeric thought maybe his pleas would reach ears more willing to listen and take heart, but Varis did not hesitate to use Aymeric’s own history against him as he had for the rest of the Alliance. The fraught history of Ishgard had been one weakness to prod, but bringing his late father into the conversation…

It had been a crippling blow, despite its underhandedness.

He thinks back and crafts counterarguments, more cutting words in response that might have granted Aymeric some semblance of a spine. Words of Ascians and deceit, of primals and power untold. But all his retorts mean nothing after the fact. He had been stunned into silence at the time and he has not the capabilities to travel back and say his piece.

Lord Hien notices the tension in his shoulders and the furrow of his brow, and offers some comfort after their many conversational blunders with the emperor of Garlemald. They soothe the sting somewhat, knowing he had not been alone in his dismantling by Varis’ hands, but Aymeric knows they have yet to endure the worst of it.

And his gut fills with dread, knowing they are so poorly equipped.


	29. paternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _of or appropriate to a father_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, watch and be amazed as notorious Dad thancred waters muses on the Being Dad. my brain has melted into a puddle of mush and i have run out of words. please enjoy

Thancred resisted the urge, at first. Then that resistance turned to distaste, to an active avoidance of the issue altogether. A heat in his chest and a desperate need to flee, to lose himself in some distant land for the space to think and to breathe. 

But finally, once Emet-Selch pressed the issue, once Minfilia and Ryne diverged, once he had said his final goodbye, he could slowly begin to understand his place in her life.

It wasn’t until he was able to truly _accept_ his role for what it was that the knot of anxiety and fear finally untied itself from his lungs and let him breathe. Her storied history with paternal figures, and no doubt the lengthy histories of those who came before her, colored her understanding of what a father is meant to be and of what that love is meant to look like. 

That she was willing to accept Thancred regardless was in itself a blessing. One he would not squander, not for the world.

And so he taught her everything he knew, from survival tactics to fighting to de-escalating situations with words alone. She took rather quickly to all he had to offer, of course, and was eager for more on the heels of the last.

It showed him to the fullest extent that the true nature of fatherhood was not in the control, the ability to claim a child as one’s own responsibility, nor the manipulation of that fact to a horrible advantage—

It was the _pride._


	30. splinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — _break or cause to break into small sharp fragments_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaand fin. slight 5.0 spoilers for this one. thanks for reading or whatever!
> 
> this one was inspired by me listening to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QxIPPNrAS8c) on repeat for the past two days and obtaining a very powerful emotion from it

They present themselves before her in the expanse of darkness.

Each fragment of herself, each trait and power and ambition, laid out in a neat row. Wrought so carefully in shards of Light. When she focuses her vision she sees more; ambitions and fates and wishes waiting for her. The true vision of who the Warrior of Light is, of what she has become—

And beyond that, what she can be. What waits in the fog of fate and future. But past and future and all the pieces between lay distant, separate from her entirely.

Emet-Selch’s chains hold her fast and she struggles against them. She had been pushed near to breaking as they fought, and though champions had been summoned to fight at her side, none could free her from this. Only by her own hands could she be liberated.

And then as she struggles she sees  _ herself _ in the darkness, shining and hale and whole. Despite her weakness, despite the looming possibility of defeat, she’s  _ resilient. _ Capable in ways that should not be possible but are, by the sheer nature of her will. Where once there had been a careful, timid girl for whom hope had been a place uncharted, now remains a woman fortified by time and trial.

But it’s not all her. Around her are the bonds wrought of stone and steel and blood and heart, her connections to those who have strengthened her and who she has strengthened in turn. The faces of friends, of loved ones, those whose paths had crossed her own and had been altered forever in her wake — just as her own had been. Those who had affected her, and those she had affected. Those who saw her strength and took heart, those who looked to her as a leader and found strength in themselves in turn—

Out of reach.

But the self she sees — the one unbroken by battles, unbound by chains — opens her eyes, glowing white where once had been a bright blue, and those chains binding her  _ shatter _ into splinters of the darkness from which they had been wrought as she sets herself free. In that moment she knows it waits for her, every piece of herself laid out for her to take, just out of reach—

And so she reaches out. She takes heart, and remembers, and bolsters herself with each piece in turn. And it gives her the strength to fight.

As ever.

**Author's Note:**

> hello i've got thoughts [@shoutzwastaken](http://twitter.com/shoutzwastaken)
> 
> wanna join my GANG? my SQUAD? it's [book club](https://discord.gg/X6NJJAb)


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